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COMPLETE  WORKS 


OF 


SHAKESPEARE 

WITH  NOTES  BY 

TOGETHER  WITH 

A  BIOGRAPHY,   CONCORDANCE  OF   FAMILIAR 

PASSAGES,  INDEX   TO   CHARACTERS,  AND 

GLOSSARY  OF  OBSOLETE  TERMS. 


Illustrated  niitft  ttocntg-tftrcc  Steel  SEngrattings  anil 
ttwo  ^f|oto9i?at>uire9« 


IN  FOUR  VOLUMES. 
VOL  I. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

DAVID  MCKAY, 

23  S.  NINTH  STREET. 
1888. 


CONTENTS 

OF  VOLUME  I. 


PAO£ 

LIFE  OF  SHAKSPEARE v 

INDEX    TO    THE    CHAEACTEES xvii 

GLOSSAEY XXV 

THE  TEMPEST .17 

TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VEEONA 73 

MEEEY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOE 129 

TWELFTH  NIGHT;  OE,  WHAT  YOU  WILL      .        .        .195 
MEASUEE  FOE  MEASUEE         ....  .        .  259 

MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 327 

MIDSUMMEE-NIGHT'S  DEEAM 391 

LOVE'S  LABOE'S  LOST .445 

MEECHANT  OF  VENICE 513 

AS  YOU  LIKE  IT 679 

ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL  645 

EXPLANATOEY  NOTES 717 


SKETCH 

or  THS 

LIFE    OP   SHAKSPEARE, 

BY  AIiEXANDER  CHALMERS,  A.  M. 


William  Shakspeare  was  born  at  Stratford-upon-Avon,  in  Warwickshire, 
on  the  23d  day  of  April,  1564.  Of  the  rank  of  his  family  it  is  not  easy  to 
form  an  opinion.  Mr.  Rowe  says  that  by  the  register  and  certam  public 
writings  relating  to  Stratford,  it  appears  that  his  ancestors  were  "  of  good 
figure  and  fashion,"  in  that  town,  and  are  mentioned  as  "gentlemen,"  an 
epithet  which  was  more  determinate  then  than  at  present,  when  it  has  become 
an  unlimited  phrase  of  courtesy.  His  father,  John  Shakspeare,  was  a  con- 
siderable  dealer  in  wool,  and  had  been  an  officer  and  bailiff  (probably  high- 
bailiff  or  mayor)  of  the  body  corporate  of  Stratford.  He  held  also  the  office 
of  justice  of  the  peace;  and  at  one  time,  it  is  said,  possessed  lands  and  tene- 
ments to  the  amount  of  ;C500,  the  reward  of  his  grandfather's  faithful  and 
approved  services  to  King  Henry  VH.  This,  however,  has  been  asserted  upon 
very  doubtful  authority.  There  is  no  direct  testimony  to  support  it.  But 
whatever  may  have  been  his  former  wealth,  it  appears  to  have  been  greatly 
reduced  in  the  latter  part  of  his  life,  as  we  find,  from  the  books  of  the  Corpo- 
ration, that,  in  1579,  he  was  excused  the  trifling  weekly  tax  of  fourpence 
levied  on  all  the  aldermen  ;  and  that,  in  1586,  another  alderman  was  appointed 
in  his  room,  in  consequence  of  his  declining  to  attend  on  the  business  of  that 
office.  It  is  even  said  by  Aubrey,  a  man  sufficiently  accurate  in  facts,  al- 
though credulous  in  superstitious  narratives  and  traditions,  that  he  followed 
for  some  time  the  occupation  of  a  butcher,  which  Mr.  Malone  thinks  not  in. 
consistent  with  probability.  It  must  have  been,  however,  at  this  time,  no 
inconsiderable  addition  to  his  difficulties  that  he  had  a  family  of  ten  children. 
His  wife  was  the  daughter  and  heiress  of  Robert  Arden  of  Wcllingcote,  ia 
the  county  of  Warwick,  who  is  styled  "  a  gentleman  of  worship."  The  family 
of  Arden  is  very  ancient,  Robert  Arden  of  Bromich,  Esq.,  being  in  the  list  of 
the  gentry  of  this  country  returned  by  the  commissioners  in  the  twelfth  year 
of  King  Henry  VI.,  A.  D.  1433.  Edward  Arden  was  sheriff  of  the  county  in 
1568.  The  woodland  part  of  this  country  was  anciently  called  Ardern,  after 
wards  softened  to  Arden ;  and  hence  the  name. 


n  LIFE     OF     SHAKSPEARE. 

Our  illustrious  poet  was  the  eldest  son,  and  received  his  early  education, 
however  narrow  or  liberal,  at  a  free  scliool,  probably  that  founded  at  Stratford. 
From  this  he  appears  to  have  been  soon  removed,  and  placed,  according  to 
Mr  Malone's  opinion,  in  the  ofFice  of  some  country  attorney,  or  the  seneschal 
of  some  manor  court,  where  it  is  highly  probable  he  picked  up  those  technical 
law  phrases  that  so  frequently  occur  in  his  plays,  and  could  not  have  been  in 
common  use,  unless  among  professional  men.  Mr  Capell  conjectures,  that 
his  early  marriage  prevented  his  being  sent  to  some  university.  It  appears, 
however,  as  Dr.  Farmer  observes,  that  his  early  life  was  incompatible  with  a 
course  of  education;  and  it  is  certain,  that  "his  contemporaries,  friends  and 
foes,  nay,  and  himself  likewise,  agree  in  his  want  of  what  is  usually  termed 
literature."  It  is,  indeed,  a  strong  argument  in  favour  of  Shakspeare's  illite- 
rature,  that  it  was  maintained  by  all  his  contemporaries,  many  of  whom  have 
left  upon  record  every  merit  they  could  bestow  on  him ;  and  by  his  succes- 
sors, who  lived  nearest  to  his  time,  when  "  his  memory  was  green ;"  and  that 
it  has  been  denied  only  by  Gildon,  Sevvell,  and  others  down  to  Upton,  who 
could  have  no  means  of  ascertaining  the  truth. 

In  his  eighteenth  year,  or  perhaps  a  little  sooner,  he  married  Anne  Hatha- 
way, who  was  eight  years  older  than  himself,  the  daughter  of  one  Hathaway, 
who  is  said  to  have  been  a  substantial  yeoman  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Strat- 
ford. Of  his  domestic  economy,  or  professional  occupation  at  this  time,  we 
have  no  information ;  but  it  would  appear  that  both  were  in  a  considerable 
degree  neglected  by  his  associating  with  a  gang  of  deer-stealers.  Being  de- 
tected with  them  in  robbing  the  park  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  of  Charlecote,  near 
Stratford,  he  was  so  rigorously  prosecuted  by  that  gentleman,  as  to  be  obliged 
to  leave  his  family  and  business,  and  take  shelter  in  London.  Sir  Thomas, 
on  this  occasion,  is  said  to  have  been  exasperated  by  a  ballad  Shakspeare 
wrote,  probably  his  first  essay  in  poetry,  of  which  the  following  stanza  was 
communicated  to  Mr.  Oldys : — 

A  parliemente  member,  a  justice  of  peace, 
At  home  a  poor  scare-crowe,  at  London  an  asse, 
If  lowsie  is  Lucy,  as  some  volke  miscalle  it, 
Then  Lucy  js  lowsie  whatever  befall  it- 

He  thinks  himself  greate, 

Vet  an  asse  in  his  state 
We  allowe  by  his  ears  but  with  asses  to  mate. 
If  Lucy  be  lowsie,  as  some  volke  miscalle  it, 
Sing  lowsie  Lucy,  whatever  befall  it. 

These  lines,  it  must  be  confessed,  do  no  great  honour  to  our  poet :  and  pro- 
bably  were  tmjust;  for  although  some  of  his  admirers  have  recorded  Sir 
Thomas  as  a  "  vain,  weak,  and  vmdictive  magistrate,"  he  was  certaiuiy  exert- 
ing no  very  violent  act  of  oppression,  in  protecting  his  property  against  a  man 
who  was  degrading  the  commonest  rank  of  life,  and  had,  at  this  time,  bespoke 
no  indulgence  by  superior  talents.  The  ballad,  however,  must  have  made 
some  noise  at  Sir  Thomas's  expense,  as  the  author  took  care  it  should  be 
affixed  to  his  park  gates,  and  liberally  circulated  among  his  neighbotirs. 


LIFEOFSHAKSPEARE.  yii 

On  his  arrival  in  London,  which  was  probably  in  1586,  when  he  i  as  twenty. 
two  years  old,  he  is  said  to  have  made  his  fi."st  acquaintance  in  the  play-house, 
to  which  idleness  or  taste  may  have  directed  him,  and  where  his  necessities, 
if  tradition  may  be  credited,  obliged  him  to  accept  the  office  of  call-boy,  or 
prompter's  attendant.  This  is  a  menial  whose  employment  it  is  to  give  the 
performers  notice  to  be  ready  to  enter,  as  often  as  the  business  of  the  play 
requires  their  appearance  on  the  stage.  Pope,  however,  relates  a  story,  com- 
municated to  him  by  Rowe,  but  which  Rowe  did  not  think  deserving  of  a 
tJace  in  the  life  he  wrote,  that  must  a  little  retard  the  advancement  of  our 
poet  to  the  office  just  mentioned.  According  to  this  story,  Shakspeare's  first 
employment  was  to  wait  at  the  door  of  the  play-house,  and  hold  the  horses 
of  those  who  had  no  servants,  that  they  might  be  ready  after  the  performance. 
But,  "  I  cannot,"  says  his  acute  commentator,  Mr.  Steevens,  "  dismiss  this 
anecdote  without  observing,  that  it  seems  to  want  every  mark  of  probability. 
Though  Shakspeare  quitted  Stratford  on  account  of  a  juvenile  irregularity, 
we  have  no  reason  to  suppose  that  he  had  forfeited  the  protection  of  his  father, 
who  was  engaged  in  a  lucrative  business,  or  the  love  of  his  wife,  who  had 
already  brought  him  two  children,  and  was  herself  the  daughter  of  a  substan- 
tial yeoman.  It  is  unlikely,  therefore,  when  he  was  beyond  the  reach  of  his 
prosecutor,  that  he  should  conceal  his  plan  of  life,  or  place  of  residence,  from 
those  who,  if  he  found  himself  distressed,  could  not  fail  to  affiard  him  such 
supplies  as  would  have  set  him  above  the  necessity  of  holding  horses  for  sub- 
sistence." Mr.  Malone  has  remarked,  in  his  "attempt  to  ascertain  the  order 
in  which  the  Plays  of  Shakspeare  were  written,  that  he  might  have  found  an 
easy  introduction  to  the  stage :  for  Thomas  Green,  a  celebrated  comedian  of 
that  period,  was  his  townsman,  and  perhaps  his  relation.  The  genius  of  our 
author  prompted  him  to  write  poetry ;  his  connection  with  a  player  might 
have  given  his  productions  a  dramatic  turn ;  or  his  own  sagacity  might  have 
taught  him  that  fame  was  not  incompatible  with  profit,  and  that  the  theatre 
was  an  avenue  to  both.  That  it  was  once  the  general  custom  to  ride  on 
horseback  to  the  play,  I  am  likewise  yet  to  learn.  The  most  popular  of  the 
theatres  were  on  the  Bankside  ;  and  we  are  told  by  the  satirical  pamphleteers 
of  that  time,  that  the  usual  mode  of  conveyance  to  these  places  of  amuse- 
ment was  by  water,  but  not  a  single  writer  so  much  as  hints  at  the  custom 
of  riding  to  them,  or  at  the  practice  of  having  horses  held  during  the  hours 
of  exhibition.  Mr.  Malone  concurs  in  opinion,  that  this  story  stands  on  a 
very  slender  foundation,  while  he  differs  from  Mr.  Steevens  as  to  the  fact  of 
gentlemen  going  to  the  theatre  on  horseback.  With  respect,  likewise,  to 
Shakspeare's  father  being  "  engaged  in  a  lucrative  business,"  we  may  re- 
mark, that  this  could  not  have  been  the  case  at  the  time  our  author  came 
to  London,  if  the  preceding  dates  be  correct.  He  is  said  to  havt  arrived 
m  London  in  1586,  the  ypar  in  which  his  father  resigned  the  office  jf  alder- 
man, unless,  indeed,  we  are  permitted  to  conjecture  that  his  resign.  ti.>n  was 
aot  the  consequence  of  his  necessities. 


nil  LIFE    OF     SHAKSPEARE. 

Btit  in  whatever  situation  he  was  first  employed  at  the  then  tie,  he  appears 
lo  have  soon  discovered  those  talents  which  afterwards  made  liim 
Th'  applause,  deliglit,  the  woiiq.t  of  our  stage! 

Some  distinction  he  probably  first  acquired  as  an  actor,  although  Mr.  Rowe 
has  not  been  able  to  discover  any  character  in  which  he  appeared  to  more 
advantage  than  that  of  the  ghost  in  Hamlet.  The  instructions  given  to  the 
player  in  that  tragedy,  and  other  passages  of  his  works,  show  an  intimate 
acquaintance  with  the  skill  of  acting,  and  such  as  is  scarcely  surpassed  in 
our  own  days.  He  appears  to  have  studied  nature  in  acting  as  much  as  in 
writing.  But  all  this  might  have  been  mere  theory.  Mr.  Malone  is  of  opinion 
he  was  no  great  actor.  The  distinction,  however,  which  he  might  obtain  as 
an  actor  could  only  be  in  his  own  plays,  in  which  he  would  be  assisted  by 
the  novel  appearance  of  author  and  actor  combined.  Before  his  time,  it  does 
not  appear  that  any  actor  could  avail  himself  of  the  wretched  pieces  repre- 
sented on  tlie  stage. 

Mr.  Rowe  regrets  tliat  he  cannot  inform  us  which  was  the  first  play  he 
wrote.  More  skilful  research  has  since  found,  that  Romeo  and  Juliet,  and 
Richard  II.  and  III.  were  printed  in  1597,  when  he  was  thirty-three  years  old ; 
there  is  also  some  reason  to  think  that  he  commenced  as  a  dramatic  writer  in 
1593,  and  Mr.  Malone  even  places  his  first  play,  "  First  Part  of  Henry  VI.," 
in  1589.  His  plays,  however,  must  have  been  not  only  popular,  but  approved 
by  persons  of  the  higher  order,  as  we  are  certain,  that  he  enjoyed  the  gracious 
favour  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  who  was  very  fond  of  the  stage:  and  the  particu- 
lar and  affectionate  patronage  of  the  Earl  of  Southampton,  to  whom  he  dedi- 
cated his  poems  of  "  Venus  and  Adonis,"  and  his  "  Tarquin  and  Lucrece." 
On  Sir  William  Davenant's  authority,  it  has  been  asserted  that  this  nobleman 
at  one  time  gave  him  a  thousand  pounds,  to  enable  him  to  complete  a  pur- 
chase. At  the  conclusion  of  the  advertisement  prefixed  to  Lintot's  edition 
of  Shakspeare's  poems,  it  is  said,  "  That  most  learned  prince,  and  great 
patron  of  learning.  King  James  the  First,  was  pleased,  with  his  own  hand,  to 
write  an  amicable  letter  to  Mr.  Shakspeare ;  which  letter,  though  now  lost 
remained  long  in  the  hands  of  Sir  William  D'Avenant,  as  a  credible  person 
now  living  can  testify."  Dr.  Farmer  with  great  probability  supposes,  that 
this  letter  was  written  by  King  James,  in  return  for  the  compliment  paid  to 
him  in  Macbeth.  The  relater  of  this  anecdote  was  Sheffield,  Duke  of  Buck- 
ingham. These  brief  notices,  meagre  as  they  are,  may  show  that  our  author 
enjoyed  high  favour  in  his  day.  Whatever  we  may  think  of  King  James  as 
a  "  learned  prince,"  his  patronage,  as  well  as  that  of  his  predecessor,  was  suC 
ficicnt  to  give  celebrity  to  the  founder  of  a  new  stage.  It  may  be  added,  that 
his  uncommon  merit,  his  candour,  and  good-nature,  are  supposed  to  have 
procured  him  the  admiration  and  acquaintance  of  every  person  distinguished 
for  such  qualities.  It  is  not  difficult,  indeed,  to  suppose  that  Shakspeare  was 
A  man  of  humor,  and  a  social  companion,  and  proba')ly  excelled  in  that 
species  of  minor  wit  not  ill  adapted  to  conversation,  of  which  il  could  have 
been  wished  he  had  been  more  sparing  in  his  writings. 


LIFEOFSHAKSPEARE.  « 

How  long  he  acted  has  not  been  discovered,  but  he  continued  to  write  till 
the  year  1614.  During  his  dramatic  career  he  acquired  a  property  in  the 
theatre,'  which  he  must  have  disposed  of  when  he  retired,  as  no  mention  of  it 
occiifs  in  his  will.  His  connection  with  Ben  Jonson  has  been  variously  related. 
It  is  said,  that  when  Jonson  was  unknown  to  the  world,  he  oifered  a  play  to 
tlie  theatre,  which  was  rejected  after  a  very  careless  perusal,  but  that  Shak- 
spearo  having  accidentally  cast  his  eye  on  it,  conceived  a  favorable  opinion 
of  it,  and  afterwards  recommended  Jonson  and  his  writings  to  the  public. 
For  this  candour  he  was  repaid  by  Jons^in,  when  the  latter  became  a  poet  of 
note,  with  an  envious  disrespect.  Jonson  acquired  reputation  by  tlie  variety 
of  his  pieces,  and  endeavoured  to  arrogate  the  supremacy  in  dramatic  genius. 
Like  a  French  critic,  he  insinuated  Shakspeare's  incorrectness,  his  careless 
manner  of  writing,  and  his  want  of  judgment;  and,  as  he  was  a  remarkably 
slow  writer  himself,  he  could  not  endure  the  praise  frequently  bestowed  on 
Shakspeare,  of  seldom  altering  or  blotting  out  what  he  had  written.  Mr. 
Malone  says,  "that  not  long  after  the  year  1600,  a  coolness  arose  between 
Shakspeare  and  him,  which,  however  he  may  talk  of  his  almost  idolatrous 
affection,  produced  on  his  par-t,  from  that  time  to  the  death  of  our  author,  and 
for  many  years  afterwards,  much  clumsy  sarcasm,  and  many  malevolent  re- 
flections."  But  from  these,  which  are  the  commonly  received  opinions  on 
this  subject.  Dr.  Farmer  is  inclined  to  depart,  and  to  think  Jonson's  hostility 
to  Shakspeare  absolutely  groundless;  so  uncertain  is  every  circumstance  we 
attempt  to  recover  of  our  great  poet's  life.  Jonson  had  only  one  advantage 
over  Shakspeare,  that  of  superior  learning,  which  might  in  certain  situations 
give  him  a  superior  rank,  but  could  never  promote  his  rivalship  with  a  man 
who  attained  the  highest  excellence  without  it.  Nor  will  Shakspeare  suffer 
by  its  being  known,  that  all  the  dramatic  poets  before  he  appeared  were 
scholars.  Greene,  Lodge,  Peele,  Marlowe,  Nashe,  Lily,  and  Kyd,  had  all,  says 
Mr.  Malone,  a  regular  university  education ;  and,  as  scholars  in  our  universi- 
ties,  frequently  composed  and  acted  plays  on  historical  subjects.* 

The  latter  part  of  Shakspeare's  life  was  spent  in  ease,  retirement,  and  the 
conversation  of  his  friends.  He  had  accumulated  considerable  property, 
which  Gildon  (in  his  "Letters  and  Essays,"  1694)  stated  to  amount  to  ;C300 
per  annum,  a  sum  at  least  equal  to  ^£1000  in  our  days;  but  Mr.  Malone 
doubts  whether  all  his  property  amounted  to  much  more  than  ;C200  per  an- 
num, which  yet  was  a  considerable  fortune  in  those  times,  and  it  is  supposed 
that  he  might  have  derived  .£200  per  annum  from  the  theatre  while  he  con- 
tinued on  the  stage. 

He  retired  some  years  before  his  death  to  a  house  in  Stratford,  of  which  it 
has  been  thought  important  to  give  the   history.     It  was  built  by  Sir  Hugh 

1  In  1G03,  he  and  .several  others  obtained  a  licence  from  King  James  to  exhibit  comeriiw, 
tragedies,  histories.  Sec,  at  the  Globe  Theatre  and  elsewhere. 

»  This  was  iht  practice  in  Milton's  days.  "  One  of  his  objections  to  academical  educa- 
tion,  as  it  was  then  conducted,  is,  tliat  men  designed  for  orders  in  the  Church  were  per- 
mitted to  act  plays."  &c.    Johnson's  Life  of  Milton. 


X  LIFEOFSIIAKSPEARE. 

Cloplon,  a  yoiinfifcr  brotlier  of  an  ancient  family  in  that  ncig-hbor.iood,  Sif 
Huffh  was  Slierifl"of  liDndon  in  the  reign  of  Richard  Ill^and  Lord  Mayor  in 
the  reign  of  Henry  VII.  By  his  will,  he  bequeathed  to  his  elder  brother's 
son,  his  manor  of  Clopton,  ifcc,  and  his  house  by  the  name  of  the  Great  House 
in  Stratford.  A  good  part  of  the  estate  was  in  possession  of  Edward  Clopton, 
Esq.,  and  Sir  Huijh  Clopton,  Knight,  in  1733.  The  principal  estate  had  been 
sold  out  of  the  Clopton  family  for  above  a  century,  at  the  time  when  Shak- 
speare  became  the  purchaser;  who  having  repaired  and  modelled  it  to  his 
own  mind,  changed  the  name  to  New  Place,  which  the  mansion  house,  after- 
wards erected  in  the  room  of  the  poet's  house,  retained  for  many  years.  The 
house  and  lands  belonging  to  it  continued  in  the  possession  of  Shakspearc's 
descendants  to  the  time  of  the  Restoration,  when  they  were  re-purchased  by 
the  Clopton  family.  Here,  in  May,  1742,  when  Mr.  Garrick,  Mr.  Macklin, 
and  Mr.  Delane  visited  Stratford,  they  were  hospitably  entertained  under 
Shakspearc's  mulberry  tree  by  Sir  Hugh  Clopton.  He  was  a  barrister  at  law, 
was  knighted  by  King  George  I.,  and  died  in  the  80th  year  of  his  age,  in 
December,  1751.  His  executor,  about  the  year  1752,  sold  New  Place  to  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Gastrell,  a  man  of  large  fortune,  who  resided  in  it  but  a  few  years, 
in  consequence  of  a  disagreement  with  the  inhabitants  of  Stratford.  As  he 
resided  part  of  the  year  at  Litchfield,  he  thought  he  was  assessed  too  highly 
in  the  monthly  rate  towards  the  maintenance  of  the  poor ;  but  being  very  pro- 
perly compelled  by  the  magistrates  of  Stratford  to  pay  the  whole  of  what  was 
levied  on  him,  on  the  principle  that  his  house  was  occupied  by  his  servants  in 
his  absence,  he  peevishly  declared  that  that  house  should  never  be  assessed 
again ;  and  soon  afterwards  pulled  it  down,  sold  the  materials,  and  left  the 
town.  He  had  some  time  before  cut  down  Shakspeare's  mulberry  tree,  to 
save  himself  tlie  trouble  of  showing  it  to  those  whose  admiration  of  our  great 
poet  led  them  to  visit  the  classic  ground  on  which  it  stood.  That  Shakspeare 
planted  this  tree  appears  to  be  sufficiently  authenticated.  Where  New  Place 
stood  is  now  a  garden.  Before  concluding  this  history,  it  may  be  necessary 
to  mention,  that  the  poet's  house  was  once  honored  by  the  temporary  resi- 
dence of  Henrietta  Maria,  queen  to  Charles  I.  Theobald  has  given  an  inac- 
curate account  of  this,  as  if  she  had  been  obliged  to  take  refuge  in  Stratford 
from  the  rebels;  but  that  was  not  the  case.  She  marched  from  Newark,  June 
16,  1643,  and  entered  Stratford  triumphantly  about  the  22d  of  the  same 
month,  at  the  head  of  three  thousand  foot  and  fifteen  hundred  horse,  with  one 
hundred  and  fifty  wagons,  and  a  train  of  artillery.  Here  she  was  met  by 
Prince  Rupert,  accompanied  by  a  large  body  of  troops.  She  resided  about 
three  weeks  at  our  poet's  house,  which  was  then  possessed  by  his  grand- 
daughter, Mrs.  Nashe,  and  her  husband. 

Shaksneare  died  on  his  birth-day,  Tuesday,  April  23,  1616,  when  he  had 
jwst  completed  his  fifty-second  year,"  and  was  buried  on  the  north  side  of  the 

'  The  only  notice  we  have  of  his  person  is  from  Aubrey,  who  says,  "  he  was  a  hand- 
gonie.  well'Sltaiied  man  ;"  and  adds,  "  verie  good  company,  and  of  a  very  ready,  and  plea- 
sant and  smooth  wit." 


LIFEOFSHAKSPEAKE.  xi 

chance],  in  tho  great  church  at  Stratford,  where  a  monument  is  placed  in  the 
wall,  on  which  he  is  represented  luider  an  arch,  in  a  sitting  posture,  a  cushion 
spread  before  him,  with  a  pen  in  his  right  hand,  and  his  left  rested  on  a  stoU 
of  paper.     The  following  Latin  distich  is  engraved  under  the  cushion  : 

Judicio  Pylium.  genio  Socratem,  arte  jyiaranem. 
Terra  legit,  populus  maret,  Olympus  habet. 

"To  this  Latin  inscription  on  Shakspeare,"  says  Mr.  Steevens,  "may  be 
added  the  lines  which  arc  found  underneath  it  on  his  monument: 

Stay,  passenger,  why  dost  thou  go  so  fast  ? 
Read,  if  thou  canst,  whom  envious  death  hath  placed 
Within  this  monument;  Shakspeare,  with  whom 
Cliiick  nature  died:  \yhose  name  doth  deck  the  tomb 
Far  more  tiian  cost:  since  all  that  he  hath  writ 
Leaves  living  art  but  page  to  serve  his  wit. 

Ob.il    An".  Dni.  1G16. 

aet.  53,  die  23  Apri. 

"  It  appears  from  the  verses  of  Leonard  Digges,  that  our  author's  moniv 
ment  was  erected  before  the  year  1623.  It  has  been  engraved  by  Vertue, 
and  done  in  mezzotinto  by  Miller." 

On  his  grave. stone,  underneath,  are  these  lines,  in  an  uncouth  mixture  of 
small  and  capital  letters : 

Good  Friend  for  lesus  SAKE  forheare 
To  dioG  T-E  Dust  EncloAsed  HERe 
Blese  be  TE  Man  ^  spares  T-Es  Stones 
And  curst  be  lie     moves  my  Bones 

It  is  uncertain  whether  this  request  and  imprecation  were  written  by  Shak- 
speare, or  by  one  of  his  friends.  They  probably  allude  to  the  custom  of 
removing  skeletons  after  a  certain  time,  and  depositing  them  in  charnel- 
houses ;  and  similar  execrations  are  found  in  many  ancient  Latin  epitaphs. 

We  have  no  account  of  the  malady  which,  at  no  very  advanced  age,  closed 
the  life  and  labours  of  this  unrivalled  and  incomparable  genius. 

His  family  consisted  of  two  daughters,  and  a  son  named  Hamnet,  who  died 
in  1596,  in  the  twelfth  year  of  his  age.  Susannah,  the  eldest  daughter,  and 
her  father's  favourite,  was  married  to  Dr.  John  Hall,  a  physician,  who  died 
November,  1635,  aged  sixty.  Mrs.  Hall  died  July  11,  1649,  aged  sixty-sii. 
They  left  only  one  child,  Elizabeth,  born  1607-8,  and  married  April  22, 1626, 
to  Thomas  Nashe,  Esq.,  who  died  in  1647 ;  and  afterwards  to  Sir  John  Bar- 
nard, of  Abington,  in  Northamptonshire ;  but  died  without  issue  by  either 
husband.  Judith,  Shakspeare's  youngest  daughter,  was  married  to  a  Mr. 
Thomas  Quinuy,  and  died  February,  1661-62,  in  her  seventy-seventh  year. 
By  Mr.  Quiney  she  had  three  sons,  Shakspeare,  Richard,  and  Thomas,  who 
all  died  unmarried.  Sit  Hugh  Clopton,  who  was  born  two  years  after  tne 
death  of  Lady  Barnard,  which  happened  in  1669-70,  related  to  Mr.  Macklin, 
in  1742,  an  old  traditirn,  that  she  had  carried  away  with  her  from  Stratford, 
many  of  her  grandfather's  papers.  On  the  death  of  Sir  John  Barnard,  Mr 
Malone  thinks  these  must  have  fallen  into  the  hands  of  Mr.  Edward  Raglty, 


Xll  LIFEOFSHAKSPEARE. 

Lady  Barnard's  executor;  and  if  any  descendant  of  that  gentleman  be  now 
living-,  in  his  custody  tlicy  probably  remain. 

In  the  year  1741,  a  monunirnt  was  erected  to  our  poet  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  by  the  direction  of  tlie  Earl  of  Burlington,  Dr.  Mead,  Mr.  Pope,  and 
Mr.  Martyn.  It  was  the  work  of  Sclieemakcr,  (who  received  .£300  for  il,j 
after  a  design  of  Kent,  and  was  opened  in  January  of  that  year.  The  per- 
formers of  each  of  the  London  theatres  gave  a  benefit  to  defray  the  expenses, 
and  the  Dean  and  Chapter  of  Westminster  took  nothing  for  the  ground.  The 
money  received  by  the  performance  at  Drury  Lane  theatre  amounted  to  above 
jE200,  but  the  receipts  at  Covent  Garden  did  not  exceed  JCIOO. 

From  these  imperfect  notices,  which  are  all  we  have  been  able  to  collect 
from  the  labours  of  his  biographers  and  commentators,  our  readers  will  per- 
ceive that  less  is  known  of  Shakspeare  than  of  almost  any  writer  who  has 
been  considered  as  an  object  of  laudable  curiosity.  Nothing  could  be  more 
highly  gratifying  than  an  account  of  the  early  studies  of  this  wonderful  man, 
the  progress  of  his  pen,  his  moral  and  social  qualities,  his  friendships,  his 
failings,  and  whatever  else  constitutes  personal  history.  But  on  all  these 
topics  his  contemporaries  and  his  immediate  successors  have  been  equally 
silent,  and  if  aught  can  be  hereafter  discovered,  it  must  be  by  exploring 
sources  which  have  hitherto  escaped  the  anxious  researches  of  those  who  have 
devoted  their  whole  lives,  and  their  most  vigorous  talents,  to  revive  his  memory 
and  illustrate  his  writings.  In  the  sketch  we  have  given,  if  the  dates  of  his 
birth  and  death  be  excepted,  what  is  there  on  which  the  reader  can  depend, 
or  for  which,  if  he  contend  eagerly,  he  may  not  be  involved  in  controversy, 
and  perplexed  with  contradictory  opinions  and  authorities  ? 

Much  of  our  ignorance  of  every  thing  which  it  would  be  desirable  to  know 
respecting  Shakspeare's  works,  must  be  imputed  to  the  author  himself.  If 
we  look  merely  at  the  state  in  which  he  left  his  productions,  we  should  be 
apt  to  conclude,  either  that  he  was  insensible  of  their  value,  or  that,  while  he 
was  the  greatest,  he  was  at  the  same  time  the  humblest  writer  the  world  ever 
produced — "that  he  thought  his  works  unworthy  of  posterity — that  he  levied 
no  ideal  tribute  upon  future  times,  nor  had  any  farther  prospect,  than  that  of 
present  popularity  and  present  profit.'"  And  such  an  opinion,  although  it 
apparently  partakes  of  the  ease  and  looseness  of  conjecture,  may  not  be  far 
from  probability.  But  before  we  allow  it  any  higher  merit,  or  attempt  to 
decide  upon  the  affection  or  neglect  with  which  he  reviewed  his  labours,  it 
may  be  necessary  to  consider  their  precise  nature,  and  certain  circumstances 
in  his  situation  which  affected  them;  and,  above  all,  we  must  take  into  our 
account  the  character  and  predominant  occupations  of  the  times  in  which  be 
lived,  and  of  those  which  followed  his  decease. 

With  respect  to  himself,  it  does  not  appear  that  he  printed  any  one  of  hia 
plays,  and  only  eleven  of  them  were  printed  in  his  lifetiino.  The  reason 
assigned  for  this  is,  that  he  wrote  them  for  a  particular  theatre,  sold  them  tq 

*  Dr.  John6on'B  Preface. 


LIFE     OF    SHAKSPEARE.  xiij 

the  managers  when  only  an  actor,  reserved  them  in  manuscript  when  himself 
a  manager,  and  when  he  disposed  of  his  property  in  the  theatre,  they  were 
still  preserved  in  manuscript  to  prevent  their  being  acted  by  tlie  rival  houses. 
Copies  of  some  of  them  appear  to  have  been  surreptitiously  obtained,  and  pub- 
lished in  a  very  incorrect  state ;  but  we  may  suppose,  that  it  was  w  iser  in  tlie 
author  or  managers  to  overlciok  this  fraud,  than  publish  a  correct  edifion,  and 
so  destroy  the  exclusive  property  they  enjoyed.  It  is  clear,  therefore,  that 
any  publication  of  his  plays  by  himself  would  have  interfered,  at  first  with 
his  own  interest,  and  afterwards  with  the  interest  of  those  to  whom  he  had 
made  over  his  share  in  them.  But  even  had  this  obstacle  been  removed,  we 
are  not  sure  that  he  would  have  gained  much  by  publication.  If  he  had  no 
other  copies  but  those  belonging  to  the  theatre,  the  business  of  correction  for 
the  press  must  have  been  a  toil  which  we  are  afraid  the  taste  of  the  public  at 
that  time  would  have  poorly  rewarded.  We  know  not  the  exact  portion  of 
fame  he  enjoyed :  it  was  probably  the  highest  which  dramatic  genius  could 
confer;  but  dramatic  genius  was  a  new  excellence,  and  not  well  understood. 
His  claims  were  probably  not  heard  out  of  the  jurisdiction  of  the  master  of 
the  revels,  certainly  not  beyond  the  metropolis.  Yet  such  was  Shakspeare's 
reputation,  that  we  are  told  his  name  was  put  to  pieces  which  he  never  vrrote, 
and  that  he  felt  himself  too  confident  in  popular  favour  to  undeceive  the  pub- 
lic. This  was  singular  resolution  in  a  man  who  wrote  so  unequally,  that  at 
this  day,  the  test  of  internal  evidence  must  be  applied  to  his  doubtful  produc- 
tions with  the  greatest  caution.  But  still  how  far  his  character  wouW  have 
been  elevated  by  an  examination  of  his  plays  in  the  closet,  in  an  age  when 
the  refinements  of  criticism  were  not  understood,  and  the  sympathies  of  taste 
were  seldom  felt,  may  admit  of  a  question.  "  His  language,"  says  Dr.  John- 
son, "  not  being  designed  for  the  reader^s  desk,  was  all  that  he  desired  it  to  be 
if  it  conveyed  his  meaning  to  the  audience." 

Shakspeare  died  in  1616;  and  seven  years  afterward  appeared  the  first 
edition  of  his  plays,  published  at  the  charges  of  four  booksellers,  —  a  circum- 
stance  from  which  Mr.  Malone  infers,  "  that  no  single  publisher  was  at  that 
time  willing  to  risk  his  money  on  a  complete  collection  of  our  author's  plays." 
This  edition  was  printed  from  the  copies  in  the  hands  of  his  fellow-managers, 
Heminge  and  Condell,  which  had  been  in  a  series  of  years  frequently  altered 
through  convenience,  caprice,  or  ignorance.  Heminge  and  Condell  had  now 
retired  from  the  stage ;  and,  we  may  suppose,  were  guilty  of  no  injury  to 
their  saccessors,  in  printing  what  their  own  interest  only  had  formerly  with- 
held. Of  this,  although  we  have  no  documents  amounting  to  demonstration, 
we  may  be  convinced,  by  adverting  to  a  circumstance,  which  will,  in  our 
days,  appear  very  extraordinary,  namely,  the  declension  of  Shakspeare's  popu- 
larity. We  have  seen  that  the  publication  of  his  works  was  accounted  a 
doubtful  speculation ;  and  it  is  yet  more  certain,  that  so  much  had  the  public 
taste  turned  from  him  in  quest  of  variety,  that  for  several  years  after  his 
death  the  plays  of  Fletcher  were  more  frequently  acted  than  his,  and  during 
the  whole  of  the  seventeenth  century,  they  were  made  to  give  place  toper- 


XIV  LIFE     OF    SHAKSPEARE. 

fiirmar  r^s,  the  greater  part  of  which  cannot  now  be  endured.  During  the 
same  period,  only  four  editions  of  his  works  were  published,  all  in  folio;  ana 
perhaps  this  unwieldy  size  of  volume  may  be  an  additional  proof  that  the? 
were  not  popular;  nor  is  it  thought  that  the  impressions  were  numerous. 

These  circumstances  which  attach  to  our  author  and  to  liis  works,  must  b« 
allowed  a  plausible  weight  in  accounting  for  our  deficiencies  in  his  biography 
and  literary  career;  but  there  were  circumstances  enough  in  the  history  of 
the  times  to  suspend  the  progress  of  that  more  regular  drama  of  which  he  had 
set  the  example,  and  may  be  considered  as  the  founder.  If  we  wonder  why 
we  know  so  much  less  of  Shakspeare  than  of  his  contemporaries,  let  us  recol- 
lect  that  his  genius,  however  highly  and  justly  we  now  rate  it,  took  a  direc- 
tion which  was  not  calculated  for  permanent  admiration,  either  in  the  age  in 
which  he  lived,  or  in  that  which  followed.  Shakspeare  was  a  writer  of  plays, 
a  promoter  of  an  amusement  just  emerging  from  barbarism  ;  and  an  amuse- 
ment which,  although  it  has  been  classed  among  the  schools  of  morality,  has 
ever  had  such  a  strong  tendency  to  deviate  from  moral  purposes,  that  the  force 
of  law  has,  in  all  ages,  been  called  in  to  preserve  it  within  the  bounds  of 
common  decency.  The  Church  has  ever  been  unfriendly  to  the  stage.  A 
part  of  the  injunctions  of  Queen  Elizabeth  is  particularly  directed  against  the 
printing  of  plays ;  and,  according  to  an  entry  in  the  books  of  the  Stationers' 
Company,  in  the  forty-first  year  of  her  reign,  it  is  ordered,  that  no  plays  be 
printed,  except  allowed  by  persons  in  authority.  Dr.  Farmer  also  remarks, 
that  in  that  age,  poetry  and  novels  were  destroyed  publicly  by  the  bishops, 
and  privately  by  the  puritans.  The  main  transactions,  indeed,  of  that  period, 
could  not  admit  of  much  attention  to  matters  of  amusement.  The  Reforma- 
tion required  all  the  circumspection  and  policy  of  a  long  reign  to  render  it  so 
firmly  established  in  popular  favour  as  to  brave  the  caprice  of  any  succeed- 
ing sovereign.  This  was  effected,  in  a  great  measure,  by  the  diffusion  of  re- 
ligious controversy,  which  was  encouraged  by  the  Church,  and  especially  by 
the  puritans,  who  were  the  immediate  teachers  of  the  lower  classes,  were  lis- 
tened to  with  veneration,  and  usually  inveighed  against  all  public  amuse- 
ments, as  inconsistent  with  the  Christian  profession.  These  controversies 
continued  during  the  reign  of  James  I.,  and  were,  in  a  considerable  degree, 
promoted  by  him,  although  he,  like  Elizabeth,  was  a  favourer  of  the  stage,  as 
an  appendage  to  the  grandeur  and  pleasures  of  the  court.  But  the  commo- 
tions which  followed  in  the  unhappy  reign  of  Charles  I.,  when  the  stage  waa 
totally  abolished,  are  sufficient  to  account  for  tlie  oblivion  thrown  on  the  his- 
tory and  woiVs  of  our  great  bard.  From  this  time,  no  inquiry  was  made, 
ontil  it  was  too  late  to  obtain  any  information  more  satisfactory,  than  the  few 
hearsay  scraps  and  contested  traditions  above  detailed.  "  How  little,"  says 
Mr.  Steevens,  "  Shakspeare  was  once  read,  may  be  understood  from  Tate, 
who,  in  his  dedication  to  the  altered  play  of  King  Lear,  speaks  of  the  original 
as  an  obscure  piece,  recommended  to  his  notice  by  a  friend ;  and  the  author 
of  the  Tatler  having  occasion  to  quote  a  few  lines  out  of  Macbeth,  was  content 
tc  "eceive  them  from  D'Avenaut's  alteration  of  that  celebrated  drama,  m 


LIFEOFSHAKSPEARE.  Xt 

whicii  almost  every  original  beauty  is  either  awkwardly  disg-uised,  or  arbi- 
trarily omitted." ' 

In  fifty  years  after  his  death,  Dryden  mentions  that  he  was  then  become 
"a  little  obsolete."  In  the  beginning  of  the  last  century,  Lord  Shaftesbury 
complains  of  his  "rude,  unpolished  style,  and  his  antiquated  phrase  and  wit." 
It  "s  certain  thai  foi  nearly  a  hundred  years  after  his  death,  partly  owing  to 
the  immediate  revolution  and  rebellion,  and  partly  to  the  'icentious  taste  en- 
couraged  in  Charles  II.'s  time,  and  perhaps  partly  to  the  incorrect  state  of  his 
works,  he  was  almost  entirely  neglected.  Mr.  Malone  has  justly  remarked, 
"that  if  he  had  been  read,  admired,  studied,  and  imitated,  in  the  same  degree 
as  he  is  now,  the  enthusiasm  of  some  one  or  other  of  his  admirers  in  the  last 
age  would  have  induced  him  to  make  some  inquiries  concerning  the  history 
of  his  theatrical  career,  and  the  anecdotes  of  his  private  life."^ 

The  only  life  which  has  been  prefixed  to  all  the  editions  of  Shakspeare  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  is  that  drawn  up  by  Mr.  Rowe,  and  which  he  modestly 
calls,  "  Some  Account,"  &.c.  In  this  we  have  what  Rowe  could  collect  when 
every  legitimate  source  of  information  was  closed,  a  few  traditions  that  were 
floating  nearly  a  century  after  the  author's  death.  Some  inaccuracies  in  his 
account  have  been  detected  in  the  valuable  notes  of  Mr.  Steevens  and  Mr. 
Malone,  who,  in  other  parts  of  their  respective  editions,  have  scattered  a  few 
brief  notices  which  we  have  incorporated  in  the  present  sketch.  The  whole, 
however,  is  unsatisfactory.  Shakspeare,  in  his  private  character,  in  his  friend- 
ships, in  his  amusements,  in  his  closet,  in  his  family,  is  nowhere  before  us, 
and  such  was  the  nature  of  the  writings  on  which  his  fame  depends,  and  of 
that  employment  in  which  he  was  engaged,  that  being  in  no  important  respect 
connected  witii  the  history  of  his  age,  it  is  in  vain  to  look  into  the  latter  for 
any  information  concerning  him. 

Mr.  Capell  is  of  opinion,  that  he  wrote  some  prose  works,  because  "  it  can 
hardly  be  supposed  that  he,  who  had  so  considerable  a  share  in  the  confider  ce 
of  the  Earls  of  Essex  and  Southampton,  could  be  a  mute  spectator  only  of 
controversies  in  which  they  were  so  much  interested."  This  editor,  how- 
ever, appears  to  have  taken  for  granted,  a  degree  of  confidence  with  these 
two  statesmen,  which  he  ought  first  to  have  proved.  Shakspeare  might  have 
enjoyed  the  confidence  of  their  social  hours;  but  it  is  mere  conjecture  that 
they  admitted  him  into  the  confidence  of  their  state  affairs.  Mr.  Malone, 
whose  opinions  are  entitled  to  a  higher  degree  of  credit,  thinks  that  his  prose 
compositions,  if  they  should  be  discovered,  would  exhibit  the  same  perspicuity, 
the  same  cadence,  the  same  elegance  and  vigor,  which  we  find  in  his  plays. 
It  is  unfortunate,  however,  for  all  wishes  and  all  conjectures,  that  not  a  line 
of  Shakspeare's  manuscript  is  known  to  exist,  and  his  prose  writings  are  no 
where  hinted  at  We  have  only  printed  copies  of  his  plays  and  poems,  and 
those  so  depraved  by  carelessness  or  ignorance,  that  all  the  labour  of  all  hia 
commentators  has  not  yet  been  able  to  restore  them   to  a  probable  purity, 

»  Mr.  Steevens'g  Advertisement  to  the  Reader,  first  printed  in  1773. 
*  Mr.  Malone'ft  Preface  to  his  edition,  1790. 


KV\  LIFE     OF     SHAKSPKARE. 

Many  of  the  greatest  difficulties  attending  the  perusal  of  thcni  yet  remain, 
and  will  require,  what  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  expect,  greater  sagacity  and 
more  happy  conjecture  than  have  hitherto  been  employed. 

Mr.  Malone  says,  that  "from  the  year  1716  to  the  date  of  his  edition  in 
1790, — that  is,  in  seventy-four  years — above  30,000  copies  of  Shakspeare  have 
been  dispersed  through  England."  Among  the  honours  paid  to  his  genius, 
we  ought  not  to  forget  tlie  very  magnificent  edition  undertaken  by  Messrs 
Boydell.  Still  less  ought  it  to  be  forgotten  how  much  the  reputation  of  Shak. 
speare  was  revived  by  the  unrivalled  excellence  of  Garrick's  performance. 

When  public  opinion  had  begun  to  assign  to  Shakspeare  the  very  high 
rank  he  was  destined  to  hold,  he  became  the  promising  object  of  fraud  and 
imposture.  This,  we  have  already  observed,  he  did  not  wholly  escape  in  his 
own  time,  and  he  had  the  spirit  or  policy  to  despise  if  It  was  reserved  for 
modern  impostors,  however,  to  avail  themselves  of  the  obscurity  m  which  his 
history  is  involved.  In  1751,  a  book  was  published,  entitled,  "  A  Compen. 
dious  or  briefe  examination  of  certayne  ordinary  Complaints  of  diue^s  of  our 
Countrymen  in  those  our  days :  which,  although  they  are  in  some  Parte  un. 
just  and  frivolous,  yet  are  they  all  by  way  of  dialogue  thoroughly  debated 
and  discussed  by  William  Shakspeare,  Gentleman."  This  had  been  origi. 
nally  published  in  1581 ;  but  Dr.  Farmer  has  clearly  proved  that  W.  S.,  gent., 
the  only  authority  for  attributing  it  to  Shakspeare  in  the  reprinted  edition, 
meant  William  Stafford,  gent.  Theobald,  the  same  accurate  critic  informs 
us,  was  desirous  of  palming  upon  the  world  a  play  called  "  Double  False 
hood,"  for  a  posthumous  one  of  Shakspeare.  In  1770  was  reprinted  at 
Feversham,  an  old  play  called  "The  Tragedy  of  Arden  of  Fevershum  and 
Black  Will,"  with  a  preface  attributing  it  to  Shakspeare  without  the  smallest 
foundation.  But  these  were  trifles  compared  to  the  atrocious  attempt  made 
in  1 795-6,  when,  besides  a  vast  mass  of  prose  and  verse,  letters.  &c,,  pre- 
tendedly  in  the  handwriting  of  Shakspeare  and  his  correspondents,  an  entire 
play,  entitled  Vortigern,  was  not  only  brought  forward  for  tlie  astonishment 
of  the  admirers  of  Shakspeare,  but  actually  performed  on  Drury  Lane  stage. 
It  would  be  unnecessary  to  expatiate  on  the  merits  of  this  play,  which  Mr. 
Steevens  has  very  happily  characterized  as  "the  performance  of  a  madman 
without  a  lucid  interval,"  or  to  enter  more  at  large  into  the  nature  of  a  fraud 
80  recent,  and  so  soon  acknowledged  by  by  the  authors  of  it.  It  produced, 
however,  an  interesting  controversy  between  Mr.  Malone  and  Mr.  George 
Chalmers,  which,  although  mixed  with  some  mipleasant  asperities,  was  ex« 
tended  to  inquiries  into  the  history  and  antiquities  of  the  stage,  from  which 
future  critics  and  historians  may  derive  considerable  information. 

'  Mr.  Malone  has  given  a  lisl  of  fourteen  plays  ascribed  to  Shakspeare,  either  by  the  edi 
tors  of  the  two  later  folios,  or  by  the  compilers  of  ancient  catalogues.  Of  these,  Feiiclei 
oas  found  advocates  for  its  admission  into  his  works. 


A  COMPLETE 

ALPHABETICAL  INDEX 

TO   THE 

CHAEACTEKS  IN  SHAKE  SPEAEE'S  PLAYS, 

With  the  Play  where  the  Character  appears. 


Aaron,  a  Moor Tit.  And. 

Abbot  of  Westminster Rich.  II. 

Abhorson,  an  executioner Mea.Jor  M. 

Abraham,%^xv2ca\  toMontague..if»m.  &  J. 

Achilles,  Gts6\  commander Troil.  &  C. 

Adnni,  servant  to  Oliver As  You  L. 

Adrian,  a  Neapolitan  lord Tempest. 

Adriana,  wife  to  Antipholus  of  Ephesus... 

Cum.  of  E. 
^t/eon,  a  merchant  of  Syracuse.. Com.  of£. 

.Emilia,  wife  to  iEgeon Com.  of  E. 

^milus.  a  noble  Roman Tit.  And. 

Mneas,2L  Trojan  commander.... T/-oj7.  tfc  C. 
Agamemnon,  CjTQB^!.  general...  2Voti.  &  C. 

Agrijypa,  friend  to  Caesar Ant.  &  C. 

AJax,  Greek  commander Troil.  &  C. 

Alarbtis,  son  to  Tamora Tit.  And. 

Aleibiades,  an  Athenian  general 

Tim.  of  A. 
Alex.  Iden,  a  Kentish  gentleman 

2  Hen.  VI 
Alexander,  servant  to  Cressida.  Troil.  &  C. 
Alexas,  attendant  on  Cleopatra..^?!/.  <fe  C. 
Alice,  a  lady  attendant  on  the  Princess 

Katharine  of  France Hen.  V. 

Alonso,  king  of  Naples Temper. 

Ambassadors,  to  king  of  Eng Hen.  V. 

Amiens,  lord  attending  on  the  banished 

duke As  You  L. 

Andromache,  wife  to  Hector... Tioi7.  &  C. 

Angelo,  a  goldsmith Com.  of  E. 

Angela,  A\x)i»  of  Vienna's  deputy 

Mea.for  M. 

Angus,  a  Scottish  nobleman Macb. 

Anne  Sullen,  afterwards  queen 

Hen.  VIII 

Anold  widow  of  Florence AlVs]Vell. 

Antenor,  a  Trojan  commander. ?Vot/.  &  C. 

Antigonus,  a  Sicilian  lord Winter's  T. 

Antiochus,  king  of  Antioch Per. 

Antipliolus  of  JVphesns,  1      twin 
Antipholus  of  Syracuse,  |  brothers. 

Crni.  of  E. 

wlnf onto,  brother  to  Leonato Much  Ado. 

Antonio,  brother  to  Prospero Tempest. 

^ntontOjfricnd  to  Sebastian Tive.lfth  N. 

Antonio,  father  to  Proteus... Rco  Gen.  Ver. 
Antonio,  a  merchant  of  Venice..J/er.  Ven. 
Apemantus,  a  churlish  philosopher 

Tim.  of  A. 

Apothecary Pom.  &  J. 

Archbishop  of  Canterbury Hen.  V. 

Archduke  of  Austria K.  John. 

Archibald,  Earl  Douglas 1  Zfcn.  IV, 

Vol.  I. 


^rcftt<fa»wus, a  Bohemian  lord.  Winter's  T. 

Ariel,  an  airy  spirit Tempest. 

Artemidoms,  a  sophist Jul.  C. 

Arthur,  nephew  to  King  John K.  John. 

Arviragus,  son  to  Cymbeline Q^wi." 

Audrey,  a  country  wench As  You  L. 

Autolycus,  a  rogue Winter's  T. 


Sagot,  servant  to  king ,...Pich.  U. 

Balthasar,  servant  to  Portia Mer.  Ven. 

JBulthazar,  a  merchant Com.  of  E. 

Ralthazar,  Don  Pedro's  servant 

Much  Ado. 
Balthasar,  servant  to  Roraeo...£(nn.  &  J. 

Banquo,^  Scottish  general Macb. 

Baptista,  a  gentleman  of  Padua. Tarn.  ofS. 
Bardolph,  follower  to  FalslaS'..!  Hen.  IV. 
Bardolph,  follower  to  Falstaff.2  Hen.  IV. 
Bardolph,  follower  to  Falstaff.  J/.  W.  of  W. 
Bardolph,  formerly  servant  to  FaistafT... 
Hen.  V. 

Barnardine,  a  dissolute  prisoner 

Men.  for  M. 

Bassanio,  friend  to  Antonio Mer.Ven. 

Basset,  of  the  Red  Rose  faction. 1  Hen.  I-T". 

Bassianus,  brother  to  Saturninus 

Tit  And. 

Bastard  of  Orleans 1  Hen.  VI. 

Bates,  a  soldier Hen.  V. 

Beatrice,  niece  to  Leonato Much  Ado. 

Belarius,  a  banished  lord Q/m. 

Benedick,  a  young  lord  of  Padua 

Much  Ado. 

Benvolio,  friend  to  Romeo Pom.  <&  J. 

Berkeley Pi^h.  lU. 

Bernardo,  a,  Danish  officer Ham. 

Bertram,  count  of  Rousillon....ylH'4  Well. 

Bevis,  a  follower  of  Cade 2  Hen.  VI. 

Bianca,  daughter  of  Baptista.... Tum.  ofS. 

liianca,  a  courtesan Othello. 

Biondello,  servant  to  Lucentio-.Tam.  ofS. 

J? iroM,  attending  on  King  Ferdinand 

love's  L.  L 

Btihop  of  lAncoln Hen.  VIII. 

Bishop  of  Winchester 1  Hen.  VI. 

Bishop  of  Ely Hen.  V. 

Bishop  of  Carlisle Pich.  II. 

Blanch,  niece  to  King  John K.  John. 

Bolingbroke,  a.  conmrer 2  Hen.  VI. 

Bona,  sister  to  the  French  queen 

3  Hen.  VI. 
Borachio,  follower  of  Don  John 

Much  Ado. 

B  xvii 


XVUl 


INDEX     TO    THE    CHARACTERS. 


Binilt,  a  servant Per. 

Jiottom  the  tt'tavcr Mid.  N.  D. 

lioij,  sorviiiit  to  Bardolpli,  etc Hen.  V. 

JSoi/ft,  attending  the  Princess  of  Frauce... 

J^ove's  L.  Ij. 

Jirahnutio,  a  Venetian  senator..  ..Othello. 

Urn  11(1(111 fJen.  VIII 

Jitillfdlt;  a  recruit 2  Hen.  IV. 

Kiisliif,  servant  to  king Hich.  II 


CnitJmr.s.i,  a  Scottish  nobleman 3Iacb. 

C(tin.s Til.  And. 

Cniii.H  Kiiriiis,  a  Roman  general Oyyn. 

Cnin.s  Mtirciti.s  Corinlnnus Coriol. 

CitUhnii,  siTv;uit  to  Prospero Tempest. 

Ciilc/iii.s,  a  Trojau  priest Troil.  tt  C. 

C<il/)nrni(i,  wile  to  Ca;sar Jul.  C. 

Cam  nil),  a  Sicilian  lord Winter's  T. 

Cntiiilins,  lieut.-general  to  Antony 

Ant.  &  a 

Capitis,  a  servant Tim.  of  A. 

Captain  of  Hand  of  Welshmen 

Rich.  II. 

Capiiriii.s.  an  ambassador Hen.  VIII. 

Capiilct,  an  Italian  nolile Rom.  tfc  J. 

CartUiKiI  licaufort,  bishop  of  Winches- 
ter  2  Hen.  VI 

Cardinal  Cantpeius Hen.  VIII. 

Cardinal  fVidsry Hen.  VIII 

Cardinal  Pandulph,  Pope's  legate 

K.  John. 

Cardinal  Jiotirchier,  archbishop  of  Can- 
terbury  Rich.  HI. 

Casca,  conspirator  against  Csesar..  .Jul.  C. 

Cassio,  Othello's  lieutenant Othello. 

Cassias,  conspirator  against  Coesar  J'«/,  C, 

Cassandra,  a  prophetess Troil.  &  C. 

Celia,  daughter  to  Duke  Frederick 

As  You  Ij. 

Ceres,  a  spirit Tempest. 

Cerinton,  a  lord  of  Ephesus Per. 

Charles  the  Wrestler As  Yoii,  L. 

Charles,  dauphin,  afterward  king  of 
France 1  Hen.  VI. 

Cfiarles  VI.,  king  of  France He7i.  V. 

Charniiun,  attendant  on  Cleopatra 

Ant.  &  C. 

Chatillon,  French  ambas.sador K.John. 

Chiron,  son  to  Tamora Tit.  And. 

Chants Hen.  V. 

Christopher  Sip,  a  drunken  tinker 

Trim.  ofS. 

Ch ristopher  Urswick,  a  pTie&t.Rich.  III. 

Cicero,  a  senator Jul.  C. 

Cinna,  a  poet Jul.  C. 

CiM/if,  conspirator  against  Cais,2.T....Jul.  C. 

Clarence's  son Rich.  Ill 

Claudia,  a  young  gentleman. ..7V/ea. /or  M. 

Cla-udio,  a  favorite  of  Don  Pedro 

Much  Ado. 

Claudius,  servant  to  Brutus ..Jul.  C. 

Clattditts,  king  of  Denmark Ham. 

Cleomenes,  a  Sicilian  lord Winter's  T. 

Clean,  governor  of  Tarsus Per. 

Cleopatra,  queen  of  Egypt Ant.  <fe  C. 

Clitas,  servant  to  Hrutus Jul.  C. 

Cloten,  step-son  to  Cymbeline Ciim. 

Cloivn Ant.  &  C. 

Clown,  servant  to  Mrs.  Overdone 

Mea.  for  M. 

Clown,  reputed  brother  to  Perdita 

Winter's  T. 

Clotvn All's  Well. 

Clown,  servant  to  Lady  Olivia... Twelfth  N. 

Clown,  servant  to  Othello Othello. 

Colrweh,  a  ftjiry Mid.  N.  D. 

Cotninins,-A  Roman  general Coriol. 

'Conrade,  follower  of  Don  Sohn.Mv^k  Ado. 


Constable  of  France Hen.  V. 

Constance,  mother  to  Princo  Arthur 

K.  John. 

Cordelia,  daughter  to  Lear K.  Lear. 

Corin,  a  shepherd As  You  L. 

Cornel  itis Ham. 

Cornelius,  a  physician Oym. 

Costard,  a  clown Love's  L.  L. 

Countess  of  Auvertftie 1  Hen.  VI. 

('(ncntess  of  Rousillon All's  Well. 

Court,  a  soldier Hen.  V. 

Crannier,  archbishop  of  Canterbury 

Hen.  VIIL 
Cressida,  daughter  to  Calchas..7'rot/.  &  C. 
Cromwell,  servant  to  Wolsey...i/era.  VIIL 

Ctiran,  a  courtier K.  Lear. 

CMrio,  attendant  on  Duke  Orsino 

Twelfth  N. 

Curtis,  servant  of  Petruchio Tain,  of  S. 

Cymbeline,  king  of  Britain Cym. 


Dardanius,  servant  to  Brutus Jid.  C. 

Davy,  servant  to  Shallow 2  Hen.  IV. 

Dant/hter  of  Antiorhiis Per. 

Decins  Uriitiis,  conspirator  against  Cae- 
sar  Jul.  C. 

I}(i))liol)iis,  son  to  Priam Trail.  <b  C. 

ncinitrias Ant.  <fe  C. 

ncniHriiis Mid.  N.  D. 

Jienietrius,  son  to  Tamora Tit.  And. 

Dennis,  servant  to  Oliver As  You  L. 

Dercetas,  friend  to  Antony Ant.  <fc  C. 

Desdentona,  wife  to  Othello Othello. 

Diana,  daughter  of  an  old  widow  of  Flor- 
ence  All's  Well. 

Diana,  goddess Per. 

Dick  the  Dutcher,  a  follower  of  Cade 

2  Hen.  VL 

Diomedes,  attendant  on  Cleopatra 

Ant.  <fe  C. 

Diomedes,  Grecian  commander. r/oii.  (Sc  C. 

THon,a  Sicilian  lord Winter's  T. 

Dionysa,  wife  to  Cleon Per, 

Doffherry,  a  constable Much  Ado. 

Doctor K.  Lear. 

Doctor  Butts,  physician  to  King  Henry.. 
Hen.  VIIL 

D(dl  Tear.she/'t,  a  strumpet 2  Hen.  TV. 

D(dah(ll(i.  Iii.iid  to  Csesar Avf  &  C. 

Doniitiiis  Huobarhus,  friend  to  A  iitony. 
Aid.&  C. 

Donalhain,  son  to  Duncan Macb, 

Don.  Arniado Love's  L.  L. 

Don  ,John,  bastard  brother  to  Don  Pe- 
dro  Much  Ado. 

Don  Pedro,  prince  of  Arragon.i(/McA  Ado. 

Dorcas Winter's  T. 

Dr.  Cuius,  a  French  physician 

M  W.  of  W. 

Droniio  of  Dphesus,   \  twin  brothers... 

Drotnio  of  Nymcuse,  J  Com.  of  E. 

Dac/ie.ss  of  Gloucester Rich.  II. 

Duchess  of  York Rich.  11. 

Duchess  of  York,  mother  to  King  Ed- 
ward IV.,  (fee Rich.  III. 

Duke  of  Albany K.Lear. 

Duke  of  Alen^on 1  Hen.  VI. 

Duke  of  Aumerle,  sou  to  Duke  of  York. 
Rich.  IL 

Duke  of  Austria K  John. 

Duke  of  lied  ford,  brother  to  King  Henry 
V Men.  V. 

Duke  of  Bedford,  uncle  to  King  Henry 
VI 1  Hen.  VL 

Duke  of  Bourbon Jlen.  V. 

Duke  of  Buckinf/ham,  of  the  king's 
party _ 2  Hen.  VI. 

Duke  of  Buckingham Jiich.  III. 


INDEX     TO    THE    CHARACTERS. 


XIX 


Jhike  of  BucJeitighani Hen.  VFII. 

Ihihe  of  Biirfiundtf K.  Lear. 

Duke  of  Biirfjiindy Hen.  V. 

Duke  of  Kurt/undif 1  Hen,  VI. 

DukeofClureiice's  daughter. Rich.  III. 

Duke  of  Cnriiwnll K.  Lear. 

Duke  of  Exeter,  uncle  to  King  Henry  V. 
Hen.  V. 

Duke  of  Exeter,  of  the  Lancaster  partv. 
3  Hen.  VI 

Dukt^of  Florence All's  fVell. 

Duke  of  Gloucester,  brother  to  King 
Henry  V Hen.  V. 

Duke  of  Gloucester,  uncle  to  King  Hen- 
ry VI  I  Hen.  VI. 

Duke,  living  in  exile As  You  L. 

Duke  of  MUan,  father  to  Silvia 

Two  Gen.  Ver. 

Duke  of  yorfolk,  of  the  duke  of  York's 
party 3  Hen.  VI. 

Duke  of  Norfolk liic/i.  Ill 

Duke  of  Norfolk Hen.  VIII 

Duke  of  Orlemis Hen.  V. 

Duke  of  Somerset,  of  the  Lancaster  par- 
ty  2  Hen.  VI 

Duke  of  Sotnerset,  of  the  Lancaster  par- 
ty  3  Hen.  VI 

Duke  of  Suffolk,  of  the  king's  party 

2  Hen.  VI 

Duke  of  Suffolk Hen.  VIII 

Duke  of  Surrey Rich.  II. 

Duke  of  Venice Mer.  Ven. 

Duke  of  Venice Othello. 

Duke  of  York,  cousin  to  King  Henry  V. 
Hen.  V. 

Dull,  a  constable Love's  L.  L. 

Dutntiin,  attending  on  King  Ferdinand... 
Love's  L.  L. 

Duncan,  king  of  Scotland Macb. 


Earl  of  Cambridge,  conspirator  against 
King  Henry  V Hen.  V. 

Earl  of  E.i'sex K.  John. 

Earl  of  Gloucester K.  Lear. 

Eurl  of  Kent K.  Lear. 

Earl  of  Northumberland Rix:h.  II. 

Earl  of  Northumberland,  enemy  to 
King  Henry  IV 2  Hen.  IV. 

Earl  of  Northumberland,  of  the  king's 
party 3  Hen.  VI. 

Earl  of  Oxford,  of  the  king's  party 

3  Hen.  VI 

Earl  of  Oxford Rich.  Ill 

Earl  of  Pembroke K.  John. 

Earl  of  Pembroke,  of  the  duke  of  York's 
party 3  Hen.  VI. 

Earl  Rivers,  brother  to  the  queen  of  Ed- 
ward IV Rich.  Ill 

Earl  of  Sali.shurif K.  John. 

Earl  of  Solisburif Rich.  II. 

Earl  of  Salisburit Hen.  V. 

Earl  of  Salisburti 1  Hen.  VI. 

Earl  of  Sali.sburi/,  oi  the  York  faction... 
2  Hen.  VL 

Earl  of  Suffolk 1  Hen.  VI 

Earl  of  Surrey 2  Hen.  IV. 

Earl  of  Surrey Rich.  Ill 

Earl  of  Surrey Hen-  VIII 

Enrl  of  Warwick,  of  King  Henry  IV.'s 
party 2  Hen.  IV. 

Earl  of  Warwick Hen..  V. 

Earl  of  Warwick 1  Hen.  IV. 

Earl  of  Warwick,  of  the  York  faction. 
2  Hen.  VI 

Earl  of  Warwick,  of  the  duke  of  York's 
party 3 //en.  VI 

Earl  of  Wc8tm.oreland,  friend  to  King 
Henry  IV i  Hen.  IV. 


Earl  of  Westmoreland,  of  King  Henry 

IV.'s  party 2  Hen.  IV. 

Earl  of  Westmoreland Hen.V. 

Earl  of  Westmoreland,  of  the   king's 

party o  Hen.  VI. 

Edgar,  son  to  Gloucester K.  Lear. 

Edmund,  bastard  sou  to  Gloucester 

K.  Lear, 
Edmund,  earl   of  Rutland,  son  to  the 

duke  of  York SHen.VI. 

Edmund  of  Lanyley,  duke  of  York, 

uncle  to  King  Richard  II Rich.  II. 

Edmund  Mortimer,  earl  of  March 

1  Hen.  IV. 

Edmund  Mortimer,  earl  of  March 

1  Hen.  VI. 
Edward,  son  of  duke  of  York..2  Hen.  VI. 

Edward,  prince  of  Wales 3  Hen.  VI. 

Edward,  afterwards  King  Edward   IV., 

son  to  the  duke  of  York 3  Hen.  VI. 

Edtvard,  prince  of  Wales,  son  to  King 

Edward  IV Rich.  III. 

ICt/eus,  father  to  Hermia Mid.  N.  D. 

E;/lamotir,  agent  to  Silvia... Two  Gen.  Ver. 

Elbow,  a  constable Mea.for  M. 

Eleanor,  duchess  of  Gloucester.2  Hen.  VI. 

Elinor,  mother  of  King  John K.  John. 

IClisabeth,  queen  of  King  Edward  I  \ , 

Rich.  IIT. 

Emilia Winter's  T. 

t.milia,  viife  to  lago Olhello. 

English  Doctor Macb, 

Eros,  friend  to  Antony Ant.  <fc  C. 

Escanes,a.  lord  of  Tyre Per. 

Escalus,  joint  deputy  with  Angelo 

Mea.for  M. 

Escalus,  prince  of  Verona Rom.  <fc  J. 

Euphronius,a.ti  embassador Ant.  <&  C. 


Fabian,  servant  to  Olivia Tweljth  N. 

Fang,  a  sheriff's  officer 2  Hen.  IV. 

Eather  that  has  killed  his  son 

3  Hen.  VL 

Feeble,  a  recruit 2  Hen.  IV. 

Frnton M.  W.  of  W. 

Eerdinand,  son  to  the  king  of  Naples 

Tempe.n. 
Ferdinand,  king  of  Navarre./zOt'e's  L.  L. 

l-e.ste,a.  clown Twelfth  N. 

Elantinius,  servant  to  Timon../"™.  of  A. 

Flavins,  steward  to  Timon Tim.  of  A. 

Flavins,  a  tribune Jul.  C. 

l-'leance,  Banquo's  son Macb. 

F'lorizel,  son  of  Polixenes WirUer's  T. 

Fluellen Hen.  V. 

Flute,  a  bellows-mender Mid.  N.  D. 

Fool K.Lear. 

F'ord     M.  W.ofW. 

Fortinbras,  prince  of  Norway Ilam,. 

Fi-ancisca,2L  nun Mea.for  M. 

Francisco,  a  Danish  soldier Ham. 

Francisco,  a  Neapolitan  lord Tempest. 

Frederick,  brother  to  the  banished  duke. 

^4'  You  L. 

FYiar  J'ohn,  a  Franciscan Rom.  &  J. 

Friar  Laurence,  a  Franciscan. /?om.  tt  J. 

FYiar  FVancis Much  Ado. 

Froth,  a  foolish  gentleman Mea.for  M. 

Oadshill,  a  thief 1  Hen.  IV. 

Gallus,  friend  to  Caesar Ant.  &  C. 

Gardiner,  bishop  of  Winchester 

Hen.  VIIL 

Garter  King-at-arms Hen.  VIII. 

Geffrey  FHtZ'Peter.  earl  of  Essex 

K.  John. 
General  of  French  forees.....,l  Hen.  VL 


XX 


INDEX    TO    THE    CHARACTERS. 


OenUett>oman,'L&dy  Macbeth's  attendant. 

Miirh. 
Qeorge,  duke  of  Clarence,  son  to  the  duke 

of  York 3 /An.  17. 

Oforqe,  duke  of  Clarence,  brother  to  King 

iMhvard  IV Rich.  111. 

Gi')'triiilr,  (\\KCii  of  Denmark Ifam. 

Ghost  of  H)imlrt'.<t  father Ham. 

Ooiiffil,  daujrlitor  to  Lear K.Lear. 

Ooiizalo,  ciiunsi'Uor  to  the  king... Tempesi. 

Got'rrnor  of  Hnr/h-iir ! Hen.  V. 

Governor  of  I'liris 1  Hen.  VI. 

Qotver,  of  King  Henry  IV.'s  party 

2  Hen.  IV. 

Gower Hen.  V. 

Gotver,  or  Chorus Per. 

G-riiniipr^,  a  French  lord Hen.  V. 

Griitiitiio,  brother  to  Brabantio Othello. 

Grntin»o,  a  friend  to  Bassanlo...Afer.  Veil. 

Gravc(li;/{/er,  first Ham. 

Gritvedifff/er,  second Ham. 

Green,  creature  to  King  Richard  II 

Rich.  II 

Gregorjf,  servant  to  Capulet Rom.  &  J. 

Greniio,  suitor  to  Bianca Tam.  ofS. 

Griffith,  usher  to  Queen  Katharine 

Hen.  VIII 
<V »•» Mi  lo.  servant  to  Petruchlo...ra;n.  of  S. 

Giiitlirius,  son  to  Cymbeline Cym. 

GuildeiiKtern Ham. 


Banilet,  prince  of  Penmark Ham. 

Harcotirt,  of  King  Henry  IV.'s  party 

2  Hen.  IV. 

Becate Mach. 

Hector,  son  to  Priam Trail.  &  C. 

Helen,  wife  to  Menelaus Troil.  &  C. 

Helen,  woman  to  Imogeu Oym. 

Helena,  in  love  with  Count  Bertram 

All's  Well. 

Helemis,  son  to  Priam Troil.  &  C. 

Helena,  in  love  with  Demetrius.. il/id.  N.  D. 

Helieaiiiis,  a  lord  of  Tyre Per. 

J?p»i*-j/,suruamedBolingbroke,  afterwards 
King  Henry  IV Rich.  II. 

Hetiry,  prince  of  Wales,  son  of  King  Hen- 
ry IV 1  Hen.  IV. 

Henry,  prince  of  Wales,  afterwards  King 
Henry  V 2  Hen.  IV. 

Henry  Percy,  son  to  earl  of  Northum- 
berland  Rich.  II. 

Henry  Percy,  earl  of  Northumberland. 
1  Hen.  IV. 

Henry  P^rcy,  surnaraed  Hotspur 

1  Hen.  IV. 

Henry,  earl  of  Richmond 3  Hen.  VI. 

Henry,  ea.r\  of  Richmond,  afterwards  King 
Henry  VII Rich.  Ill 

Herniin,  in  love  with  Lysander..il/id.iV.  7A 

Herniione Winter's  T 

Hero,  daughter  to  Leonato Much  Ado. 

Hippolyta,  queen  of  the  Amazons 

Mid.  N.  I). 

Holland,  a  follower  of  Cade 2  Hen.  VI. 

Holofernes,  a  schoolmaster. ..Xcwe's  L.  L. 

Horatio,  friend  to  Hamlet Ham. 

Hortensio,  suitor  to  Bianca Tam.  ofS. 

Hortensins,  a  servant Tim.  of  A. 

Ho.it  of  the  Garter  Inn M.  W.of  W. 

Hubert  T>e  liuryh K.  John. 

J/h»i^,  a  priest 2  Hen.  VI. 

Humphrey,  duke  of  Gloucester.2  Hen.  VI. 

Hymen As  You  L. 


lachimo,  a  friend  to  Philario Cym. 

laffo,  Othello's  ancient Othello. 

Imogen,  daughter  to  Cymbeline....... C^»t. 


Tra.v,  attendant  on  Cleopatra Ant.  &  G 

Iris,  a  spirit Tempest. 

Isabella,  sister  to  Claudio Mea.for  M. 

Isabel,  queen  of  France Hen.  V. 


JacU  Cade,  a  rebel 2  Hen.  VI. 

,Ta>nes  Giirney,  servant  to  Lady  Faul- 

conbridge K.John. 

Jamy,  an  officer  in  King  Henry's  army... 
Hen.  V. 

eTaquenetta Love's  L.  L. 

tiaques,  a  misanthropical  lord.. .^5  You  L. 

tiaques,  brother  to  Orlando As  You  L. 

Jessica,  Shylock's  daughter Mcr.  Ven. 

fletveller Tim.  of  A. 

Joan  la  Pucelle,  commonlv  called  Joan 

of  Arc '. 1  Hen.  VI. 

JoJin  Uraufort,  earl,  afterwards  duke,  of 

Somerset 1  Hen.  VI. 

John  of  Gaunt,  uuclo  to  King  Richard 

II Rich.U. 

John  Morton,  bishop  of  Ely Rich.III. 

John  Talbot,  son  of  earl  of  Shrewsbury.. 

1  Hen.  VI. 

Julia,  beloved  by  Proteus...  Tito  Gent.  Ver, 

Juliet,  beloved  by  Claudio Mea.fm-  M. 

f7»<?i('^. daughter  to  Capulet Rom,.  &  J. 

,/ulius  Cffsar Jul.  C. 

Juniu.s  Jirutus,  tribune  of  the  people.... 

Coriol. 

Jtino,  a  spirit Tempest. 


Katharina,  the  Shrew Tam.  of  S. 

Katharine,  daughter  of  Charles  VI.,  king 

of  France Hen.  V. 

Katharine,  a  lady  attendant.ion« '«  L.  L. 

Kin//  I^dtrard,  IV. Rich.  III. 

King  of  France K.  Lear. 

King  of  France All's  Well. 

King  Henry  IV.  of  .England 

1  Hen.  IV. 
King  Henry  IV.  of  England 

2  Hen.  IV. 

King  Henry  V.  of  England Hen.  V. 

King  Hennj  VI.  *'         ...1  Hen.  VI. 

Kin,/  Henry  VI.  "         ...2  Hen.  VI 

King  Henry  VI.  "        ...3  Hen.  VL 

King  Henry  VIII.       "        ...Hen.VIIL 

King  John  "        K.John. 

King  Lear  of  Sritain K.Lear. 

King  Itichard  II Rich.  II. 


lady  Anne,  wife  to  the  duke  of  Glouces- 
ter  Rich.  in. 

Lady  Capulet,  wife  to  Capulet..i?om.  &J. 

lady  Faulconltridge,  mother  to  the 
P.astard  and  R.  Faulconbridge....iir.  John. 

lAidy  Grey,  queen  to  Edward  IV 

3  Hen.  VL 

Lady  Macbeth Mad. 

Lady  Macduff. Much. 

Lady  Montague,  wife  to  Montague 

Rom.  &  J. 

Lady  Mortitne.r,daughterto  Owen  Glen- 
dower  1  Hen.  IV. 

Lady  Northumberland 2  Hen.  IV. 

Lady  Percy,  Hotspur's  wife....l  Hen.  IV. 

Lady  Percy 2  Hen.  IV. 

Laertes,  son  to  Polonius Ham. 

Lafeu,  a  satirical  old  lord All 's  Well. 

Launce,  servant  to  Proteus..  Two  Geni.  Ver. 

Launcelot  Gobbo,  Shylock's  servant. 
Mer.  Ven. 

Lavinia,  daughter  to  Titus  Andronicus. 
Tit.  And. 

Le  Scaux,  a  courtier As  You  L. 


INDEX    TO    THE    CHARACTERS. 


XXI 


Jjennox,  a  Scottish  nobleman Mncb. 

Xieoiiine,  a  servant Per. 

Leotmrdo,  servant  to  Bassanio..J/(?r.  Ven. 

Leonato,  governor  of  Messina.. J/hcA  Ado. 

Leontitiis  Posthwtitis ,  husband  to  Imo- 
gen  Oym. 

Leoiites,  king  of  Sicilia Winter's  T. 

l.arenzo,  in  love  with  Jessica Mer.  Ven. 

L,ewis,  the  dauphin K.John. 

Ijetvis,  the  dauphin Hen.  V. 

lieu'is  XI.,  king  of  France 3  Uen.  VI. 

Ziieiitenfiut  of  Touier 3  Hen.  17. 

Z,i(/<irhis,  conspirator  against  Caesar 

Jul.  C. 

I^odovico.  kinsman  to  Brabantio...O//ifWo. 

lionffiiville,  attending  on  King  Ferdi- 
nand  Love's  L.  L. 

Lord  Aberyiiventiy Hen.  VIII. 

Z,ord  littrdolpJi,  enemy  to  King  Henry 
IV 2  Hen.  IV. 

ILord  Rerkeley Rich.  II. 

liord  Hiffot K.John. 

J/orrf  Chamberlain Hen.  VIII. 

Xiord  Chancellor Hen.  VIII. 

JLord  Chief  Justice  of  the  Kititf's 
Bench 2  Hen.  IV. 

Iiord  Clifford,  of  the  king's  party 

2  Hen.  VI 
iMrd  Clifford,  of  the  king's  party 

■A  Hen   VL 

Z.ord  Fitzwater Rich.  II. 

XiordGrey,  son  to  Edward  IV.'s  queen.... 

Rich.  in. 

iMrd  Hastings,  enemy  to  King  Henry 

IV Hen.  IV. 

IJord  Hastings,  of  the  duke  of  York's 

party 'A  Hen.  VI. 

Jjord  Hastings Rich.  III. 

Lord  Lovel Rich.  III. 

Iiord  Marshal Rich.  II. 

Xiord  Mayor  of  London Rich.  III. 

Lord  Mowlyruf/,  enemy  to  King  Henry 

IV 2  Hen.  IV. 

Lord  iti«e»**,  brother  to  Lady  Grey 

3  Hen.  VL 

Lord  Ross Rich.  11. 

Lord  Sands Heii.  VIII. 

Lord  Say 2  Hen.  VL 

Lord  Scales,  governor  of  the  Tower 

2  Hen.  VL 
Lord  Scroop,  conspirator  against  Henry 

V Hen.  V. 

Lord  Stafford,  of  the  duke  of  York's 

party 3  He7i.  VL 

Lord  Stanlt'i) Rich.  III. 

Lord   Willoiiyhby Rich.  IL 

Luee,  sirvaiit  to  Adriana Com.  of  E. 

Z/itcentio,  ill  love  with  Baptista's  daughter. 

TU'M.  of  6'. 

Lucetta,  waiting-woman  to  Julia 

Two  Gen.  Ver. 

XMcmn<r,  sister  to  Adriana Com.  of  E. 

Jjucilius,  friend  to  Brutus JiU.  C. 

Lucilius,serva.nt  to  Timon Tim.  of  A. 

Lucio,  a  fantastic Mea.for  M. 

Lucius, ahoy    Til.  Ami. 

Lucius,  flatterer  of  Timon Tim.  of  A. 

Lucius,  a  servant Tim.  of  A. 

lAicius,  servant  to  Brutus Jul.  C. 

Lucius,  sou  to  Titus  Andronicus.TO.  And. 
Lueullas,  flatterer  of  Timon. ...rim.  of  A. 

Lycliorida,  nurse  to  Marina Per. 

Lysander,  in  love  with  Herniia.ilfirf.  A'./>. 
Lyainiachus,  governor  of  Mitylene-./'er. 


M,  Antony Ani.  <6  C. 

M.  JEmil.  Lepidas  a  triumvir Jul.  C. 

M.  .Siniil,  Lepidus,  a  triumvir..,47t/.  d-  C. 


Macbeth,  a  Scottish  genera},  afterwards 

king  of  Scotland Macb. 

3Iacduff,  a  Scottish  nobleman Maeb. 

Macduff^s  son Mncb. 

Slactnorris,  an  officer  in  King  Henry's 

army Hen'V. 

Malcolm,  son  to  Duncan,  king  of  Scotland. 
Much. 

Malvolio,  steward  to  Olivia Twelfth  N. 

Mamillius, son  of  Leontes Winter's  T. 

^larcellus,  a  Dauisli  officer Ham. 

Marcius,  son  to  Coriolanus Coriol. 

Marcus  Andronicus,  brother  to  Titus 

Andronicus Tit.  And. 

Marcus  Antonius,a  triumvir Jul.  C. 

Ma7-cu.'i    Srutus,    conspirator    against 

Ciesar Jul.  C. 

Ma rdian,  attendant  on  Cleopatra 

Ant.  (t-  C 

Margarelon,  bastard  son  of  Priam 

Troil.  &  C. 
Margaret,  married  to  King  Henry  VI.... 

1  Hen.  VL 
Margaret,  queen  to  King  Henry  VI 

2  Hen.  VL 
Margaret,  queen  to  King  Henry  VI 

3  Hen.  VL 
Margaret,  queen  to  King  Henry  VI 

Rich.  IIL 

Margaret,  Lady  Hero's  attendant 

Much  Ado. 
Margaret  iTourdain,  a  witch.2  ift?!.  VI. 

Maria,  a  lady  attendant Lore's  L.  L. 

il/ffl-j-i-rt,  Olivia's  waiting-woman.  7>cf//rt  JV. 
Mariana, betrothed  to  Angnlo. Mea.for  M. 

Mariana All 's  Well. 

ilf «»•£>»«,  daughter  to  Pericles Per. 

Marquis  of  JOorset,  son  to  King  Ekiward 

IV.'s  queen Rich.  III. 

3Iarquis  of  Montague,  of  the  duke  of 

Y'ork's  party 3  Hen.  VL. 

Marshtil Per. 

Martius,  son  to  Titus  Andronicus 

Tit.  And. 

Marullus Jul.  C. 

Ma.ster  Gunner  of  Orleans,  and  his 

son 1  Hen.  VI. 

Master  Page M.  W.  of  W. 

Mayor  of  London \  Hen.  VL. 

Mayor  of  York 3  Hen.  17. 

Mecwntts,  friend  to  Caesar Ant.  &  C. 

Melun,  a  French  lord K.  John. 

Menus,  friend  to  Porapey A7it.  &  C. 

i!fc«cta«s,  brother  to  Agamemnon 

Troil.  &  C. 
Menenius  Agrippa,  friend  to  Corio- 
lanus  Coriol. 

Menteith,  a  Scottish  nobleman iMacb. 

Menecrates,  friend  to  Porapey.. v4n<.  X-  C. 
Mercade,  attending  on  the  princess  of 

France Love's  L.  L. 

Merchant Tim.  of  A. 

Mercutio,  friend  to  Romeo Rom.  &  J. 

Messala,  friend  to  Brutus Jul.  C. 

Metcllus    Citnber,  conspirator    against 

Caesar Jul.  C. 

Miranda,  Prospero's  dznghter.... Tempest. 

Montague, an  Italian  noble Rom.&J. 

Montana,  formerly  governor  of  Cyprus... 
Othello. 

Montjoy,  a  French  herald Hen.  V. 

Mopsa Winter's  T. 

Mart  liner's  keeper 1  Hen.  VL 

Morton,  a  domestic  to  the  duke  of  Nor- 

tbumlierland 2  Hen.  IV. 

3Ioth,  a  fairy Mid.  N.  D. 

Moth,  page  to  Arraado Love's  L.L. 

Mouldy,  a.  recruit 2  Hen.  IV. 

Mowbray,  duke  of  Norfolk Rich.  II. 


XXll 


INDEX    TO    THE    CHARACTERS. 


Jlfr.  Ford,  a  pontloman  of  Windsor 

M.  W.  of  W. 

Mr.  Page,  a  Kontlcnian  of  Wimlsor 

M.  W.  of  W. 
Jtlr.s.  Anne  I*onr,  iu  love  with  KcMtoii... 

M.  \y.  of  ir. 

Mrs.  Ford M-  H'.  of  H'. 

Mrs.  ttvrrtlone,  a  bawd Me.a.pr  M. 

Mrs.rii(/>- M.  }V.o/  IK 

Mrs.  Quichlif,  servant  to  Dr.  Cains 

M.  W.  of  IK. 
Mrs.  Qiiirhh/,  hostess  of  tavern  in  East- 
cheap ". 1  Hen.  IV. 

Mrs.  Quicklii 2  Hen.  IV. 

Mrs.  Qiiirkhf Hen.  V. 

MustiirU-sced,  a  fairy Mid.  A'.  Z>. 

MHtiim Tit.  Ami. 


JVeWssa,  Portia's  waiting-woman 

Mer.  Veil. 

Jfe.ttor,  Grecian  commander Troil.  &  C. 

yiir.S('  to  fTiiliet Eom.  &  J. 

JVi/Hi,  follower  of  Falstaff. M.  W.of  W. 

A'^j/wt.  formerly  servant  to  Falstaff. 

2  Hen.  IV 


Oh'^ron. king  of  the  fairies Mid.N.D. 

Octnria,  sisler  to  C»sar Ant.  &  C. 

Octiivins  Cw.vor,  a  triumvir .Jul.  C. 

Octiiviii.f  Ctp.snr, a  triumvir Anl.  &  C. 

Old  Gobbo,  father  to  Launcelot  Gobbo 

Mer.  Ven. 
Old  lady,  friend  to  Anne  Bullen 

Hen.  Vni. 

Old  man,  tenant  to  Gloucester K.  Lear. 

Old  shepherd,  father  to  Joan  la  Pucelle. 

1  Hen.  VI. 
Old  shepherd,  reputed  father  to  Perdita.. 

Winter's  T. 

Olivia,  a  rich  countess Twelfth  N. 

Olivia,  brother  to  Orlando As  Ymi  L. 

Ophelia,  daughter  of  Polonius Ham. 

Orlmiilo,  iu  love  with  Rosalind.^li'  You  L. 

Orsiiio,  duke  of  lUyria Twelflh  N. 

O.irir,  a  courtier Ham. 

Osww/d,  servant  to  Goneril   K.Lear, 

Othello,  a  Moor Olheilo. 

Owen  Glendower,  a  Welsh  chieltain 

1  Hen.  IV. 


JPaffe,  a  follower  of  Falstaflf. 2  Hen.  IV 

Painter Tim.  of  A. 

I'andar,  a,  and  wife Per. 

Pa ndanis,  uncle  to  Cressida...3VOTi.  <b  C. 

fanthitio,  servant  to  Antonio 

Tico  Gen.  Ver. 

Paris,  in  love  with  Juliet Rnm.  &  J. 

Paris,  son  to  Priam Troil.  &  C. 

Parolles,ii  braggart All's  Well. 

Patience,  woman  to  Queen  Katharine 

He7i.  VIIL 
Patroeliis,GTecia.n  commander.  Ti-nil.  d:  C. 

Paulina Winter's  T. 

Peasehlos.fom,  a  fairy Mid.  N.  D. 

Pedant Tarn,  of  S. 

Perdita Winter's  T. 

Pericles,  prince  of  Tyre Per. 

Peter,  a  friar Mea.  for  M. 

Peter,  Horner's  servant 2IIen.  VI. 

Peter  of  Pomfret,  a  prophet K.  John 

JV!<fr,  servant  to  Jr.liet's  nurse...i?«w!.  A  .T. 

Peto,  follower  to  Falstaff. 1  Hen.  IV. 

IPeto 2  Hen.  IV. 

Petruchio,  a  suitor  to  Katharina,  Bap- 

tista's  daughter Tarn,  of  .S. 

Phebe,  a  shepherdess As  You  L. 


Vhilnrio,  friend  to  Posthumns Oynt, 

Phihtnon,  servant  to  t:erinion Per. 

J'hilijt,  king  of  France K.John. 

I'liiiip    Faalconbridffe,  bastard   son  of 

King  Ki(  hard  I K.  John. 

Philo,  friend  to  Antony Ant.  &  C. 

Philostrate,  master  of  the  revels 

A/id.  N.  D. 

Pliilotus,  a  servant TiTn.  of  A. 

Phri/nia,  niistre.ss  to  Alcibiades.TVm.  of  A. 

Piueli,  a  .-iehdoluiaster Coin,  of  E. 

Pindaviis,  .servant  to  Cassius Jul.  C. 

Pisiinio.  servant  to  Posthumus Cym. 

Pi.xtol,  Ibllower  to  Falstaft' M.  W.  of  W. 

PLstol 2  Hen.  IV. 

Pistol,  formerly  servant  to  Falstafl".//fn.  V. 

}'lnyer8 Ham. 

Poet Tim.  of  A. 

Poins,  a  companion  to  the  Prince  of  Wales. 
1  Hen.  IV. 

Poiiis 2  Hen.  IV. 

Polia-eties.  king  of  Bohcm\a.....  Winter's  T. 

J'olonins,  father  of  Ophelia Ham. 

I'onijx'ff,  a  servant Mea.  for  M. 

Pojiilitis  Lena,  a  senator Jul.  C. 

Porter Mach. 

Portia,  a  rich  heiress Mer.  Ven. 

Portia,  wife  to  Brutus Jul.  C. 

Priatn,  king  of  Troy Troil.  &  C. 

Priest Ham. 

I'rinee  of  Arratfoti Mer.  Ven. 

Prince  Jletiry,soii  toKing  JohnK.  John. 
Prince  Hutnphrey  of  Gloucester,  son 

of  King  Henry  IV Hen.  IV. 

Prince  John  of  Lancaster,  son  of  King 

Henry  IV 1  Hen.  IV. 

Prince  John  of  Lancaster,  son  of  King 

Henry  IV 2  Hen.  IV. 

I'riiice  of  Morocco 3Ier.  Ven. 

Princess  of  France Love's  L.  L. 

J'rocideius,  friend  to  Csesar Anl.  d'  C. 

Prospero,  banished  duke  of  Milan. y«?Hj!)e«/. 

Prote-us,  a  gentleman  of  Verona 

Two  Gen.  Ver, 

Prirrost Mea.  for  M. 

Piihlins,  a  senator Jul.  O. 

Puhlius,  son  to  Marcus  Andronicus 

I'll.  And. 
Pack,  a  fairy Mid.  N.  D. 


Queen  to  King  Pichard  II Kich.  II. 

Oueen  Katharine,  wife  to  Henry  VIII. 
Hen.  VIIL 

Queen,  wife  to  Cymbeline Oym. 

Quince,  the  carpenter Mid.JV.D. 

Quintus,  son  to  Titus  Andronicus.  Tii.  And. 


Pamhvres,  a  French  lord Hen.  V. 

J?<Y/""' daughter  to  Lear K.  Lear. 

I{e'iffnier,AvVe  of  Anjou 1  Hen.  VI. 

Jteynaldo,  servant  to  Polonius Ham. 

lliehard,  duke  of  Gloucester,  son  to  the 

duke  of  York 3  Hen.  VI. 

Pi  chard,  duke  of  Gloucester,  afterwards 

King  Richard  III Rieh.  IIL 

Jlichard  Plantayenet,  duke  of  York 

1  Hen.  VL 
Itichard  Plautar/enef,  dukeof  York 

2  Hen.  VL 
Richard  Plantaaenet,  duke  of  York.... 

SHen.VL 
niehard,  .son  of  duke  of  York. .2  Hen.  VI. 
Jlichard,  duke  of  York,  son  to  King  Ed- 
ward IV Rich.  IIL 

Pohert  Pif/ot,  earl  of  Norfolk K.  John. 

Pohert  Faitlconhridfie K.  John. 

Robin,  page  to  Falstaff. M.  W.  of  W. 


INDEX    TO    THE    CHARACTERS. 


xxm 


Itoderigo,  a  Venetian  gentleman.. 0<A«ito. 

Itotneo,  son  to  Montague Rum.  &  J. 

Rosulind,  daughter  to  the  banished  duke. 
As  You  L. 

Jtosaline,  a  lady  attendant Love's  L.  L. 

Jtosi'ticrantz Ham. 

Jios.s-.a  Scottish  nobleman Marb. 

Jiiit/hi/.  servant  to  Dr.  Caius...J/.  W.  of  W. 
Humor 2  Hen.  IV. 


Snltiuio,  friend  to  Bassanio Mer.  Ven 

Siiliifiito,  friend  to  Bassanio Mer.  Ven. 

Snlerio,  a  messenger Mer.  Ven. 

Sampson,  servant  to  Capulet....i2«7».  &  J 

Snturiiiiiii.s,  emperor  of  Rome... ZYZ.  And. 

Sviirii.s,  (ri(-iid  to  Antony AiU.  &  C. 

Scotc/i  doctor Macb. 

Scroop,  archbishop  of  York 1  Hen.  IV. 

Scroop,  archbishop  of  York,  enemy  to 
King  Henry  IV '2  He^i.  IV 

Scii-c<iptain.,  friend  to  Viola Twelfth.  N. 

Sen-captain 2  Hen.  VJ. 

Sebastian,  brother  to  king  of  Naples 

TempesL 

Sebastian,  brother  to  Viola Ticelf'.h.  X. 

iSeieitCM*,  attendant  on  Cleopatra. .-l/i^  it  C 

Sempronins,  flatterer  of  Timou.rim.  of  A. 

Sctnpronia.t TU.  And. 

Sfrciliiis,  servant  to  Timon Tim.  of  A 

Srjcta.'i  PompHus Ant  cfc  C. 

Si'i/ton Macb. 

Sliitdou),  a  recruit 2  Hen.  IV 

S/ialloic,  a  country  justice M.  IV.  of  IT 

Shallow,  a  countrv  justice 2  Hen.  IV. 

Sheriff  of  Wiltshire Rich.  Ill 

Shylock,  a  Jew Mer.  Ven. 

Sicinius  Velutus,  tribune  of  the  people. 
Coriol. 

Silence,  a  country  justice 2  Hen.  IV. 

Silitts,  an  officer Arit.  &  C. 

Silvia,  beloved  by  Valentine.  Kt-o  Gen.  Ver. 

Silvias,  a  shepherd As  Imt-  L. 

Simonides,  king  of  Pentapolis Per. 

Simpeoje,  a.n  impostor 1  Hen.  VI. 

Simpcox's  wife 2  Hen.  VI. 

Simjdr,  servant  to  Slindtr M.  W.  of  W. 

Sir  Andrew  At/aechee/c Twelfth  K 

Sir  Anthoni)  Uennij Hen.  VIII 

Sir  Henrij  Uuildford Hen.  VIII. 

Sir  Muyh  Jb^vans,  a  Welsh  parson 

M.  W.  of  W. 

Sir  Hugh  Mortimer,  uncle  to  the  duke 
of  York Hen.  VI. 

Sir  Hiimphre//  Stafford 2  Hen.  VI. 

Sir  James  liloant Rich.  III. 

Sir  ■Tames  Ti/rrel Rich.  III. 

Sir  John  Coleville,  enemy  to  King  Hen- 
ry 1 V 2  Hen.  IV. 

Sir  John  Palstaff. M.  W.  of  W. 

Sir  John  h'alstaff: 1  Hen.  IV. 

Sir  John  I<'al.itaff. 2  Hen.  IV 

Sir  John  Fastolfe 1  Hen.  VI 

Sir  John  Montgomery 'i  Hen.  VI. 

Sir  John  Mortimer,  uncle  to  the  duke 
of  York 3  Hen.  VI. 

Sir  John  SonierviUe 'i  Hen.  VI. 

Sir  John  Stanley 2  Hen.  VI. 

Sir  Michael 1  Hen.  IV. 

Sir  Na t/i a niel,  a  cursitc Liwe's  L.  L. 

Sir  \ielotlas  Faux Hen.  VIII. 

Sir  Oliver  Ma rtext As  You  L. 

Sir  J'ierce  of  Ex.ton Rich.  II. 

Sir  It.  Jirahenhury,  lieutenant  of  the 
Tower Rick.  Ill 

Sir  Richard  Hatcliff. RU:h.  III. 

Sir  llicliard  Feriion 1  Hen.  IV. 

Sir  Stephen  Scroop Rich.  II. 

Sir  Tliomus  liritinyham, Hen.  V. 


Sir  Thomas  Gargrave 1  Hen.  VI. 

Sir  Thomas  G-rey,  conspirator  against 

King  Henry  V Hen.  V. 

Sir  Thomas  Lovell Hen.  VIII. 

Sir  Thomas  Vauyhan Rich.  III. 

Sir  Toby  Belch,  uncle  to  Lady  Olivia 

Tivrflh  N. 

Sir  Walter  Sltint,  friend  to  King  llenry 

IV 1  Hen.  IV. 

Sir  Walter  Herbert Rich.  III. 

Sir  William  Cateshy Rich.  III. 

Sir  Williani  Glansdale 1  Hen.  VI. 

Sir  William  Lucy 1  Hen.  VI. 

Sir  Willitim  Stanley i  Hen.  VI. 

Siieard,  English  general Mach. 

Slender,  cousin  to  Shallow M.  W.  of  W. 

Smith  the  weaver,  a  follower  of  Cade 

2  Hen.  VL 

Snare,  a  sheriff's  officer 2  Hen.  IV. 

Snout  the  tinker Mid.  iV.  D. 

Snug  the  Joiner Mid.  N.  D. 

Solinus,  duke  of  Ephesus. Com.  of  E. 

Son  that  has  killed  his  father 

3  Hen.  VL 

Soothsat/er Jul.  C 

Soothsayer Int.  &  C. 

Soathwell,  a  priest 2  Hen.  VL 

.Sjteed.  sei\a.nt  to  Valentine.. r^-t)  Gen.  Ver. 

Spirit 2  Hen.  VL 

Starveling  the  tailor Mid.  N.  D. 

Stephano,  a  drunken  butler Tempest. 

Stephana),  servant  to  Portia J/er.  Ken. 

■Htrato,  servant  to  Brutus Jul.  C. 

Surveyor  to  Duke  Huckingham 

Hen.  VIII 

Talbot,  earl  of  Shrewsbury 1  Hen.  VI. 

Taniora,  queen  of  the  Goths Tit.  And. 

Taurus,  lieutenant-general  to  Ctesar 

Ant.  &  C. 

Thaisa,  daughter  to  Simonides Per. 

Thaliard,a,  lord  of  Autiocli Per. 

Thersites,a,  scurrilous  Grecian.  TV-ot^.  <fc  C. 

Thesetis,  duke  of  Athens 3Iid.  N.  D. 

Tlionias  Heaufbrt,  duke  of  Exeter 

1  Hen.  VL 

Tliomas,  duke  of  Clarence,  son  of  King 
Henry  IV 2  Hen.  IV. 

Thomas,  a  friar Mea.for  M. 

Tliomus  Horner,  an  armorer.. 2  Hen.  VL 

Thomas  Percy,  Earl  of  Worcester 

1  Hen.  IV. 

Thomas  Rotherham,  archbishop  of 
York Rich.  III. 

Ihree  Witches Macb. 

TItnrio,  in  love  with  Silvia...  Tit'O  Gen.  Ver. 

Thyreus,  friend  to  Oajsar Ant.  &  C. 

Timandra,  mistress  to  Alcibiades 

Tim.  of  A. 

Time  as  Chorus Winter's  T. 

Timon,  an  Athenian  noble 7Vm.  of  A. 

Titania,  cjuecn  of  the  fairies Vid.  N.  D. 

Tiliiiiiis,  liirnd  to  ISrutus Jul.  C. 

Til  US  Andrvnicus,  a  noble  lioman 

Tit.  And. 

Titus  Lartius,  a  Konian  gcii(ial...a)r»o<. 

Titus,  a  servant Tim.  of  A. 

Tonch.stone,  a  clown A.i  You  L. 

IVanio,  servant  to  Lucentio Tim  ofS. 

Travers,  a  domestic  to  duke  of  Northum- 
berland  2  Urn.  IV. 

Trebonius,  conspirator  against  Ca;sar 

Jut.  C. 

Tressel Rich.  IIL 

Trincalo,  a  jester Tempest. 

Troilns,  .son  to  Priam Trail,  tfc  C. 

Tahiil,  a. lew Mer.  Ven. 

Tall  as    la /ill  ills,  Volscian  general.  Ow'io/. 

Tutor  to  Rutland 3  Hen.  VL 


INDEX    TO    THE    CHARACTERS. 


Tiro  Of^iitlotncii,  prisoners  with  duke  of 

Suffolk 2  Ben.  VI. 

Tybalt,  ncphow  to  Lady  CapnIet.JZo))!.  <fc  J. 

r7//s.v«>.s',  Grecian  commander... 7'(0(7.  <t*  C. 
Vrtiitla,  Lady  Hero's  atleudaiit.AfueA  Ado. 


yitlcnlitie,ti  gentleman  of  Verona 

Two  Gen.  Ver. 

t'ttlcutine,  attendant  on  Duke  Orsiiio 

Tiiu'lfUt.  N. 

rnlentine Tit.  And. 

VdleriiffMfud  to  Virgilia Coriol. 

I'n/'»y>.v-;erv;\ut  to  Brutus did.  C. 

Viirriii.t Mea.for  JH. 

Vnrriu.i,  friend  to  Pompey Ant.  <£•  C. 

Vinijc 2  Hen.  VI. 

Vciitidiu.s Titn.  of  A. 

Ventid i U.S.  Mend  to  Antony Ant.  &  C. 

Vevffi's,  an  otiicer  of  tlie  watch. >/«eA  Ado. 

Vernon,  of  the  White  Ro.se  faction 

1  Hen.  VI. 

Vincriitio,  duke  of  Vienna Mea.Jor  M. 

Vincentio,  a  geutleman  of  P\sa..Tam.  o/S. 


Viola,  in  love  with  Duke  Orsino.  Twelfth  If. 

Violenta All's  Well. 

ViryUia,  wife  to  Coriolauus Coriol. 

Voltinuind,  a  courtier Ham. 

Volinnitin,  mother  to  Coriolauus.... Cfeno/. 
Voluinnitis,  friend  to  Brutus Jul.  C. 


Walter  TVhitmore 2  Ihn.  VI. 

Wiirt,a.  recruit 2  Hin.IV. 

Wi II iain,  in  love  with  Audrey. ..,^.5  I'uu  L. 

Williatn  Longstvord,  earl  of  Salisbury.. 

K.  John. 

William,  Mareshall,  earl  of  Pembroke.. 

K.  John. 

Williatn  Stafford ..  .2  Hen.  VI. 

Williams,  a  soldier Heji.  V. 

WoodviUe,  lieutenant  of  the  Tower 

1  Hen.  VI. 


YontMf  Cato,  friend  to  Brutus Jul.  C 

Young  Clifford,  of  the  king's  party 

2  Hen.  VI. 
Touny  Siwai-d Much, 


?■'■■>. 


%^       ' 


GLOSSARY. 


OF  OBSOLETE   WORDS,    AND   OP   WORDS   VARYING   FROM   THEIB 
ORDINARY   SIGNIFICATION. 


Abate,  to  depress,  sink,  subdue, 
A  B  C,  a  catechism. 
Abhor,  to  protest  against. 
Abjects,  debased  servile  persons. 
Able,  to  qualify  or  uphold. 
Abortive,  issuinsr  before  its  time. 
Absolute,  complete,  perfect. 
Abuse,  deception. 
Abused,  deceived. 
Aby,  to  pay  dear  for,  to  rue,  to 

suffer. 
Abysm,  abyss. 
Accite,  to  cite  or  summon. 
Accuse,  accusation. 
Achieve,  to  obtain. 
Aconitum,  wolf's-bane. 
Acquittance,  requital. 
Action,  direction  by  mute   signs, 

charge,  or  accusation. 
Action-taking,  litigious. 
Actures,  actions. 
Additions,  titles  or  characters. 
Address,    to    prepare,    to     make 

ready. 
Addressed,  or  add  rest,  ready. 
Admittance,  favor. 
Advance,  to  prefer. 
Advertising,  attentive. 
Adversity,  contrariety. 
Advertisement,  atlmonition. 
Advice,  consideration,  discretion, 

thought. 
Advise,  to  consider,  to  recollect. 
Advised,  cool,  cautious. 


Aery  or  Aiery,  a  hawk's  or  eagle'R 
nest. 

Affect  the  letter,  to  practise  allite- 
ration. 

Affect,  love. 

Affection,  affectation,  imagination. 

Affectioned,  affected. 

Affects,  affections. 

Affeered,  confirmed. 

Affled,  betrothed. 

Affined,  joined  by  afRnity. 

Affront,  to  confront. 

Affy,  to  betroth. 

Aglet-baby,  a  diminutive  being, 
not  exceeding  the  tag  of  a 
point,  from  aiguilettes. 

Agnize,  acknowledge,  confess,  vow. 

A-good,  in  good  earnest. 

Aim,  guess,  suspicion. 

Airy  fame,  mere  verbal  eulogy. 

Aider-liefest,  best  beloved 

Ale,  a  merry-meeting 

A'life,  at  life. 

Allow,  to  approve. 

Allowance,  approbation. 

Amaze,  to  perplex. 

Amazonian  chin,  a  beardless  chin. 

Ames-ace,  the  lowest  chance  of 
the  dice. 

Amiss,  misfortune. 

Amort,  dispirited. 

An,  as  if. 

Anchor,  a  hermit. 

Ancient,  an  ensign,  or  standard, 
bearer. 

XXV 


XXVI 


GLOSSARY. 


An^le,  a  fishing-rod. 

Anight,  in  the  night. 

Answer,  relaliation. 

Anthropophagi,  cannibals. 

Antifk,  the  ibol  of  the  old  play. 

Antiquity,  old  aae. 

Antres,  caves  and  dens. 

Appeache,  to  impeach. 

Appeal,  to  accuse. 

Appeared,  made  apparent. 

Apple-john,  an  apple  that  will 
keep  for  two  years. 

Apply.  10  attend  to,  consider. 

Appointment,  preparation. 

Apprehension,  opinion. 

Apprehensive,  quick  of  compre- 
hension. 

Approbation,  entry  or  probation. 

Approof,  approbation,  proof. 

Approve,  to  justify,  prove,  estab- 
lish. 

Approved,  experienced. 

Approvers,  those  who  try. 

Aqua-vitcE.  strong  waters,  probably 
usquebaugh. 

Arabian  bird,  the  phoenix. 

Arch,  chief. 

Argentine,  silver. 

Argentine,  the  goddess  Diana. 

Argier,  Algiers. 

Argosies,  ships  laden  with  great 
wealth. 

Argument,  subject  for  conversa- 
tion, evidence,  proof. 

Arm,  to  take  up  in  tne  arms. 

Aroint,  avaunt,  begone. 

A-row,  successively. 

Art,  practice  as  distinguished  from 
theory;  also,  theory. 

Articulate,  to  enter  into  articles. 

Artificial,  ingenious,  artful. 

As,  as  if. 

Ascaunt,  askew,  sideways. 

Aspect,  countenance. 

Aspersion,  sprinkling. 

As  point,  completely  armed. 

Assay,  test. 

Ascapart,  a  giant. 

Assinego,  a  male  ass. 

Astringer.  a  gentleman  falconer. 

Assurance,  conveyance  or  deed. 

Assured,  affianced. 

Ates,  instigate  from  Ate,  the  god- 
dess of  bloodshed. 

Atomies,  minute  particles  visible 
in  the  sun's  rays. 

Attasked.  takeo  to  task. 


Attended,  waited  fof 

Attent,  attentive. 

Atone,  to  reconcile. 

Attest,  attestation. 

Attorney,  deputation. 

Attorneyship,      the      discretional 

agency  of  another. 
Attornied,  supplied  by  substitution 

of  embassies. 
Audacious,  spirited,  animated. 
Audrey,  a  corru-Hion  of  Elhelrea. 
Augurs,  prognosticatioiis. 
Auk  ward,  adverse. 
Aunts,  strumpets. 
Authentic,  learned. 
Awful,  reverend. 
Awless,  failing  to  produce  awe. 

B. 

Baccare,  stand  back,  give  place. 

Bairn,  brushwood. 

Baldriek,  a  belt. 

Bale,  misery. 

Baleful,  baneful. 

Balked,  bathed  or  piled  up. 

Ballase,  ballast. 

Balm,  the  oil  of  consecration. 

Ban.  curse. 

Band,  bond. 

Bandog,  village-dog. 

Bandy,  to  exchange  smartly. 

Bank,  to  sail  along  banks. 

Banning,  cursing. 

Banquet,  a  slight  repr.s;. 

Bar,  barrier. 

Barbason,  the  name  of  a  demon. 

Barbe,  a  kind  of  veil. 

Barbed,  wariikely  caparisoned. 

Barber-monger,  an  associate  of 
barbers. 

Bare,  to  shave. 

Bare.  mere. 

Barful,  full  of  impediments. 

Barm,  yeast. 

Barn,  or  bairn,  a  child. 

Barnacles,  a  shell-fish. 

Barns,  keeps  in  a  barn. 

Barren,  ignorant. 

Base,  dishonored. 

Base,  a  rustic  game  called  prison- 
base. 

Bases,  a  kind  of  loose  breeches 
worn  by  equestrian  knights. 

Basilisks,  a  species  of  cannon. 

Basta,  'tis  enough. 

Bastard,  raisin  wine. 

Bat,  a  club. 


GLOSSARY. 


xxvu 


Bate,  strife. 

Bate,  to  tluliei  as  a  hawk. 

Batlet,  an  instrument  with  which 
vva^^hers  used  to  beat  clothes. 

Batten,  to  grow  fat. 

Battle,  army. 

Bawcock,  a  jolly  fellow. 

Bay,  the  space  between  the  main 
beams  of  a  house. 

Bay-curtal.  a  bny  clocked  horse. 

Bay-window,  a  bow-window. 

Beadsmen,  religions  persons,  main- 
tained to  pray  for  their  bene- 
factor. 

Beak,  the  forecastle. 

Bear  a  biain,  to  perfectly  resemble. 

Beard,  to  defy. 

Bearing,  demeanor. 

Bearing-cloth,  a  mantle  used  at 
christenmgs. 

Beat  (in  falconry),  to  flutter. 

Beating,  hammering,  dwellingupon 

Beavei'.  helmet  in  general. 

Beck,  a  salutation  made  with  the 
head. 

Becomed,  becoming. 

Beetle,  to  hang  over  the  base. 

Behave,  to  manage. 

Behests,  commands. 

Beholding,  viewing  with  regard. 

Behowl,  to  howl  at. 

Being,  abode. 

Beldame,  ancient  mother. 

Be-lee'd,  becalmed. 

BelongingS;  endowments. 

Be-mete,  be-measure. 

Be-moiled.  bedraggled,  bemired. 

Bending,  unequal  to  the  weight. 

Benefit,  beneficiary. 

Bent,  uimo.-t  degree  of  any  passion. 

Benumbed,  infle.xible. 

Beshrew.  may  ill  befall. 

Besmirch,  to  foul  or  dirty. 

Best,  bravest. 

Bestowed,  stowed  away,  lodged. 

Bestraught,  distracted. 

Beteem,  to  give,  pour  out,  permit, 
suffer. 

Bewray,  betray. 

Bezonian.  a  mean  fellow. 

Bias-cheek,  swelling  out  like  the 
bias  (if  a  bowl. 

Bid,  to  invite. 

Bid-lhe-base,  to  challenge  in  a 
contest. 

Bifold    two-fold. 

Biggin,  a  cap. 


Bilberry,  the  whortleberry. 

Bdbo,  a  Spanish  blade  made  at 
Bilboa. 

Bdboes.  fetters. 

Bill,  articles  of  accusation. 

Bill,  a  weapon,  formerly  carl  .ed 
by  watchmen. 

Bin.  is. 

Bird-bolt,  an  arrow  shot  at  birds 
from  a  cross-bow. 

Bisson,  blind. 

Blank,  the  white  mark  in  a  target. 

Blank  and  level,  mark  and  aim, 
(terms  of  gunnery.) 

Blaze  of  youth,  the  spnng  of  early 
life. 

Blear,  to  deceive. 

Blench,  to  start  off,  to  fly  off. 

Blent,  blended. 

Blind-worms,  the  caecilia,  or  slow- 
worm. 

Blood-boltered,  daubed  with  blood. 

Blown,  puffed-up,  swollen. 

Blows,  swells. 

Bloody,  sanguine. 

Blue  caps,  the  Scotch. 

Blunt,  stupid,  insensible. 

Blurt,  blurted,  an  expression  of 
contempt. 

Board,  to  accost. 

Bohb,  to  trick. 

Bodged,  boggled;  clumsy. 

Bodkin,  a  small  dagger. 

Bolted,  sifted. 

Bolting-hutch;  the  receptacle  in 
which  the  meal  is  bolted. 

Bombard,  or  bumbard,  a  barrel. 

Bombast,  the  stuffing  of  clothes. 

Bona-robas,  strumpets. 

Bond,  bounden  duty. 

Bony  or  bonny,  handsome 

Book,  paper  of  conditions. 

Boot,  profit,  something  over  and 
above. 

Bore,  demeaned. 

Bore,  the  calibre  of  a  gun. 

Bores,  stabs. 

Bosky,  woody. 

Bosom,  wish,  heart's  desire. 

Bots,  worms  in  a  horse's  stomacil. 

Bourn,  boundary,  rivulet. 

Bow,  yoke. 

Bolds,  emboldens. 

Boltered,  bedaubed. 

Borne  in  hand,  deceived. 

Bottled-spider.  a  large  bloa  3d  spi- 
der. 


XXVlll 


GLOSSARY. 


Boulted,  sifted. 

Bowlins  or  bowlines,  tackle  of  a 
ship 

Bolleii,  swollen. 

Bordeied.  lestniiiied. 

Bower,  a  chamber. 

Brace,  armor  for  the  arm. 

Brach.  a  hound. 

Brack,  to  s<ilt. 

Braid,  crafty,  deceitful. 

Braiii's-How,  tears. 

Brake,  an  instmment  of  torture  ; 
also,  a  thicket. 

Brands.,  a  part  of  the  andirons  on 
which  the  wood  for  the  fire 
was  supported. 

Brasier,  a  manufacturer  of  brass; 
also,  a  ve.^sel  in  which  char- 
coal is  burned. 

Brave,  to  defy,  also  to  make  fine. 

Bravely,  splendidly,  gallantly. 

Bravery,  finery. 

Brawl,  a  kind  of  dance. 

Braying,  harsh,  grating. 

Break,  to  begin. 

Break  up,  to  carve. 

Break  with,  to  break  the  matter  to. 

Breast,  voice. 

Breath,  speech;  also,  exercise. 

Breathing-courtesy,  mere  verbal 
compliment. 

Breechecl,  foully  sheathed,  mired. 

Breeching,  liable  to  be  flogged. 

Breathed,  inured  by  constant  prac- 
tice. 

Breathe,  to  utter. 

Breed-bate,  an  e.xciter  of  quarrels. 

Bribe-buck,  a  buck  sent  as  a  bribe. 

Bridal,  the  nuptial  feast. 

Bring,  to  attend  or  accompany. 

Brize,  the  gad,  or  horsefly. 

Broach,  to  put  on  the  spit,  to  trans- 
fix. 

Brock,  the  badger. 

Brogues,  a  kind  of  shoes. 

Broken,  communicated. 

Broker,  a  match-maker,  a  procu- 
ress. 

Brooched,  adorned. 

Brought,  attended. 

Brow  of  youth,  the  height  of  youth. 

Brown-bill,  a  battle-axe. 

Brownist,  a  follower  of  Brown,  a 
sectarian. 

Bruising-irons,  an  allusion  to  the 
ancient  mace. 

Bruit  "-eport  h  th  Ciamor. 


Brush  of  time,  decay  of  time. 

Bug,  bugbears,  fal.se  terrors. 

Bumbard,  a  large  drinking  ve.ssel 

Bung,  a  cut-purse. 

Bunting,  a  bird. 

Buriionet,  a  helmet. 

Busky,  woody. 

Butt-shaft,   an   arrow   to  shoot   at 

shafts  with. 
Buxom,  obedient. 
By'rlaken,  by  our  lady. 


Caddis,  worsted  lace. 

Cade,  a  barrel. 

Cadent,  falling. 

Cage,  a  prison. 

Cam-colored,  yellow. 

Caitiff,  a  scoundrel. 

Calculate,  to  foretell. 

Caliver,  a  musket. 

Call,  to  visit. 

Callet,  a  woman,  a  wqtch. 

Calling,  appellation. 

Calm,  qualm. 

Camelot,  a  place  where  King  Ar- 
thur is  supposed  to  have  kept 
his  court. 

Canary,  a  dance. 

Candle-wasters,  those  who  sit  up 
all  night  to  drink. 

Canker,  the  dog-rose. 

Canstick,  candlestick. 

Cantons,  cantos. 

Canvas,  to  sift. 

Canvas-climber,  a  sailor. 

Cap,  the  top,  the  chief. 

Cap,  to  salute  by  taking  off  the  cap. 

Capable  impressnre,  hollow  mark. 

Capitulate,  to  make  head  against. 

Capocchia,  a  sot. 

Capon,  metaphor  for  a  letter. 

Capricious,  lascivious. 

Captious,  capacious. 

Carack,  a  ship  of  great  bulk. 

Caracts,  characters. 

Carbonado,  a  piece  of  meat  cut 
crossways  for  the  gridiron. 

Card,  a  sea-chart,  perhaps  also  the 
compass. 

Carded,  mixed. 

Care,  inclination. 

Careires,  the  motion  of  a  horse; 
to  pass  the  careires,  means  to 
overstep  the  bounds  of  deco 
rum. 
j  Carkanet,  a  necklace. 


GLOSSARY. 


XXIX 


Carl,  clown,  boor. 

Carlot,  peasant. 

Carnal,  sanguinary. 

Carowses,  drinks. 

Carriage,  import. 

Carried,  conducted. 

Carry,  to  prevail  over. 

Cart,  a  chariot. 

Case,  skin,  outward  garb. 

Case  of  lives,  a  set  of  lives. 

Casques,  helmets. 

Cassock,  a  horseman's  loose  coat. 

Cast,  1o  empty;  also  to  dismiss, 
reject. 

Cast,  repkoned. 

Castilian,  an  opprobrious  term. 

Castiliano  vulgo,  a  cant  term  of 
contempt. 

Cast-lips,  let  off  lips. 

Cast  the  water,  to  find  out  disor- 
ders by  inspecting  the  urine. 

Catalan,  a  liar. 

Catling,  a  small  lutestring,  made 
of  catgut. 

Cavalero-justice,  a  cant  term. 

Cavaleroes,  gay  fellows. 

Caviare,  loo  good  for,  or  above  the 
comprehension  of;  so  called 
from  a  delicacy  made  of  the 
roe  of  sturgeons,  eaten  by  the 
quality. 

Cautel,  subtlety. 

Cautel  or  cantle,  the  corner,  or 
piece  of  anything. 

Cautelous,  insidious,  cautious. 

Cearment,  the  wrapping  of  an  em- 
balmed body. 

Cease,  decease. 

Censure,  to  give  an  opinion. 

Centuries,  companies  of  a  hundred 
men  each. 

CeremoniniK,  superstitious. 

Certes,  certainly. 

Cess,  measure,  tax  or  subsidy. 

Chair,  throne. 

Chalicfed,  i.  e.  flowers,  with  cups, 
from  calix. 

Challenge,  the  right  of  refusing  a 
juryman. 

Chamber,  ancient  name  for  Lon- 
don ;  also,  a  piece  of  ordnance. 

('hamberers,  intriguers. 

Champian,  an  open  country. 

Chantry,  a  .«mall  chapel  in  a  ca- 
thedral. 

Character,  hand-writing. 


Charactery,  the  matter  with  w^iich 
letters  are  made. 

Chares,  task-work. 

Charge-house,  free-school. 

Chariest,  most  cautious. 

Chariness,  caution 

Charitable,  dear,  endearing. 

Charles-wain,  the  constellation 
called  the  bear. 

Charm  your  tongue,  be  silent. 

Charmer,  one  who  deals  in  magic. 

Charneco,  a  sweet  wine. 

Chance,  fortune. 

Chary,  cautious. 

Chases,  a  term  in  tennis. 

Chandron,  entrails. 

Cheater,  for  escheatour,  an  ofRcei 
in  the  Exchequer. 

Checks,  probably  for  ethics. 

Cheer,  countenance. 

Cherry-pit,  a  game  with  cherry 
stones. 

Cheveril,  soft  leather;  also,  con 
science. 

Chew,  to  ruminate,  consider. 

Chewet,  a  chattering  bird. 

Chide,  to  resound,  to  echo ;  also, 
to  scold,  be  clamorous. 

Chiding,  sound;  noisy. 

Child,  a  knight,  a  hero. 

Child,  a  female  infant. 

Childing.  unseasonably  pregnant. 

Chopine.  a  high  shoe. 

Chopping,  jabbering. 

Chough,  a  bird  of  the  daw  species. 

Christom  or  chrisom,  the  white 
cloth  put  on  a  new  baptized 
child. 

Chuck,  chicken,  a  term  0/  endear- 
ment. 

Chuff,  rich,  avaricious. 

Cicatrice,  the  scar  of  a  wound. 

Circummured,  walled  rouno. 

Circumstance,  conduct,  detail,  cir- 
cumlocution. 

Cite,  incite. 

Cital,  recital. 

Civil,  grave,  solemn. 

Civil,  human. 

Cittern,  a  musical  instrument. 

Clack-dish,  a  beggar's  dish. 

Clamour,  a  term  in  bell-ringing. 

Clap-in,  fall  to. 

Clapped  i'  the  clout,  hit  the  white 
mark. 

Clap,  to  join  hands. 


XXX 


GLOSSARY. 


Claw,  to  flatter. 

Clean,  compleiely. 

Clean  karn,  awry. 

Clear,  pure. 

Clearest,  purest. 

Clepe,  to  call. 

Clerkly,  learned,  scholar-like 

Cling,  to  dry,  or  shrink  up. 

Clinquant,  iiiittering. 

Clipt,  embraced. 

Clout,  the  while  mark  at  which 
archers  shoot. 

Clouted,  hobnailed. 

Coach-fellow,  one  who  draws  with 
a  confeilerate. 

Coasting,  conciliatory. 

Cob-loaf,  a  crusty,  uneven  loaf. 

Cock,  cock-boat. 

Cock-and-pye,  a  vulgar  oath. 

Cock-shut  time,  twilight. 

Cockle,  a  corn-weed. 

Cockle-hat,  a  pilgrim's  hat 

Codding,  amorous. 

Codling,  an  unripe  apple. 

Codpiece,  a  part  of  the  dress. 

Coffin,  the  cavity  of  a  raised  pie. 

Cog,  to  cheat  with  dice,  to  lie. 

Cogginu:.  lying. 

Cognizance,  badge  or  token. 

Coigne  of  vantage,  convenient 
corner. 

Coignes,  corners. 

Coil,  bustle,  stir. 

Cold,  naked. 

Collection,  consequence,  oi  co- 
rollary. 

Collied,  black,  smutted. 

Colt,  to  trick. 

Co-mart,  a  joint  bargain. 

Combinate,  betrothed. 

Come  of,  to  pay. 

Come  of  will,  to  succeed. 

Co-meddled,  mingled. 

Comfort,  to  aid. 

Comforting,  abetting. 

Comma,  connection. 

Commission,  authority. 

Commend,  commit. 

Committed,  lain  with. 

Commodity,  self-interest. 

Commonty,  a  comedy. 

Compact,  made  up  of. 

Companies,  companions. 

Compare,  comparison. 

Comparative,  a  dealer  in  com- 
parisons. 

Compassed,  round. 


Compassed  cape,  a  round  cape. 
Compassed   window,  a   bow-win 

dow. 
Compassionate,  plaintive. 
Compose,  to  come  to  a  composition. 
Compostnre,  composition. 
Composition,  bargain;   also,  con. 

sistency. 
Competitors,  confederates. 
Complements.  accomplishmentB 
Comple.xion,  humor. 
Comply,  to  compliment. 
Comptible,  .submissive. 
Conceit,  imagination,  wit,  idea 
Conceited,  ingenious. 
Concent,  connected  harmony. 
Conclusions,  e.xperiments. 
Concupy,  concupiscence. 
Condolement.  sorrow. 
Conduct,  conductor. 
Coney-catched.  tricked. 
Coney-catcher,  a  cheat. 
Confession,  profession. 
Confineles.s,  bouiidle.ss. 
Confound,  to  destroy. 
Conject,  conjecture. 
Consent,  will,  conspiracy. 
Consider,  reward. 
Consigned,  sealed. 
Consist,  stand. 
Consort,  company. 
Conspectuity,  sight. 
Constancy,  consistency. 
Constantly,  certainly. 
Contemptible,  contemptuous. 
Continuate.  uninterrupted. 
Continue,  to  spend. 
Continent,  containing. 
Contraction,  marriage-contract. 
Contrarious,  different. 
Contrary,  to  contradict. 
Contrive,  to  spend,  to  wear  out. 
Control,  confute. 
Convents,  agrees,  is  convenient. 
Convented,  summoned. 
Conversion,  change  of  condition 
Converse,  associate,  interchange 
Convertite,  a  convert. 
Convey,  to  .steal. 

Conveyance,  slight  of  hand,  theft 
Conveyers,  thieves. 
Conveyed  himself,  derived  his  title 
Convicted,  overpowered,  baffled. 
Convince,  to  convict,  to  subdue. 
Convive,  to  feast. 
Copatain  hat,  a  hat  with  a  conical 

crown 


GLOSSARY. 


XXXI 


Cope,  encounter,  covering. 

Copped,  rising  to  a  top  or  heaJ. 

Copy,  theme. 

Coragio,  couiajre,  be  of  good  cheer. 

Corinth,  a  brothel. 

Corinthian,  a  wencher. 

Corky,  diy.  withered. 

Corollary,  surplu.s. 

Corporal,  corporeal. 

Corrigible,  corrected. 

Costard,  a  head. 

Coster-moiiger,  a  dealer  in  costers 
or  apples. 

Cote,  to  overtake. 

Coted,  quoteii,  regarded. 

Cotsale,  Cotswood  in  Gloucest. 

Couch,  to  lie  with. 

Count,  to  reckon  upon. 

Countenance,  favor;  also,  false 
appearance,  hypocrisy. 

Counter,  a  hunting  term. 

Counter-caster,  one  who  reckons 
with  counters. 

Counter-check,  a  term  in  chess. 

Counterfeit,  a  portrait. 

Counterpoints,  counterpanes. 

Count},  count,  earl. 

Couplement,  a  couple. 

Courses,  the  mainsail  and  foresail. 

Court-cupboard,  sideboard. 

Court  confect,  a  spurious  nobleman. 

Court  holy-water,  flattery. 

Covered,  hollow. 

Cowed,  awed. 

Cower,  to  sink  down. 

CowlstafT,  a  staff  used  in  carrying 
a  basket. 

Coy,  to  soothe. 

Coyed,  yielded  reluctantly. 

Coystril,  a  coward  cock,  a  poltroon. 

Cozier,  a  tailor,  a  botcher. 

Crack,  dissolution ;  also,  a  boy- 
child. 

Cranks,  windings. 

Cranking,  or  crankling,  the  rush 
of  a  river. 

Grants,  garlands. 

Crare,  a  small  trading  vessel. 

Crash,  to  be  merry  over. 

Craven,  a  cowardly  cock,  mean, 
cowardly. 

Create,  compounded,  made  up  of. 

Credent,  credible. 

Credit,  account,  information,  cre- 
dulity. 

Cressets,  lights  set  upon  a  beacon. 

Creseive,  increasing. 


Crest,  the  SHmn  .t. 

Crestless,  those  who  have  no  right 

to  armorial  bearings. 
Crewel,  worsted. 
Crisp,  curled,  winding. 
Critic,  cynic. 
Critical,  censorious. 
Crone,  a  very  old  woman. 
Crosses,   money   stamped    with  a 

cross. 
Crow-keeper,  a  scarecrow. 
Crownet,  last  purpose. 
Crulentious,  cruel. 
Crusado,  a  Portuguese  coin. 
Crush,  to  drink. 
Crush  a  cup.  to  crack  a  bottle. 
Cry,  a  pack  of  hounds. 
Cry  aim,  to  encourage. 
Crystals,  the  eyes. 
Cub-drawn,    alluding    to    a    bear 

whose  dugs  are  dry. 
Cue,    a   theatrical    term,  the   last 

word  of  the  preceding  speech. 
Cuisses,  armour  for  the  thighs. 
Cullion,  a  paltry  fellow. 
Cunning,  knowledge. 
Curb,  to  bend  or  truckle. 
Curiosity,  curiousness,  finical   de- 
licacy. 
Curious,  scrupulous. 
Curled,  ostentatiously  dressed. 
Currents,  occurrences. 
Cursed,  under  the  influence  of  a 

malediction. 
Curst,       petulant,       ill-tempered, 

crabbed,  harsh. 
Curstness,  ill-humor. 
Curtail,  a  little  cur. 
Curtal,  a  docked  horse. 
Curtle-axe,  a  cutlass,  broad-sword, 
Customer,  a  strumpet. 
Cut,  a  horse. 

Cut  and  longtail,  poor  and  rich. 
Cuttle,  a  knite  used  by  sharpers. 
Cyprus,  a  transparent  stuff. 

D. 

Daflf,  or  doff,  to  put  off. 

Dally,  to  trifle. 

Damn,  to  condemn. 

Danger,  control. 

Dank,  wet,  rotten. 

Danskers,  natives  of  Denmark 

Darkling  in  the  dark. 

Darraign,  to  arrange. 

Daub,  to  di.«guise. 

Daubery,  falsehood,  counterfeit, 


GLOSSARY. 


Day-bed,  a  couch. 

Day-light,  broad  day. 

Day-woman,  dairy  maid. 

Dealt,  fought  by  pioxy. 

Dear,  imruediale,  consequential. 

Dearii,  direful,  lonely,  solitary. 

Death-tokens,  spots  on  those  in- 
fected with  the  plague. 

Death's-man,  executioner. 

Debitor,  debtor. 

Deboshed,  debauched. 

Decay,  poverty,  misfortunes. 

Deck  of  cards,  a  pack. 

Decked,  sprinkled. 

Decline,  to  run  through  (as  in 
grammar)  from  first  to  last. 

Declined,  the  fallen. 

Deem,  opinion,  surmise. 

Deer,  animals  in  general. 

Default  (in  the),  at  a  need. 

Defeat,  to  free,  to  disembarrass. 

Defeature,  alteration  of  features. 

Defence,  art  of  fencing. 

Defend,  to  forbid. 

Deftly,  adroitly,  dexterously. 

Defy,  to  reject. 

Degrees,  steps. 

Delay,  to  let  slip. 

Demerits,  merits. 

Demurely,  solemnly. 

Denay,  denial. 

Denayed,  denied. 

Denier,  a  coin. 

Denude,  to  strip,  divest. 

Deny,  to  refuse. 

Depart,  to  part. 

Departing,  separation. 

Depend,  to  be  in  service. 

Deprive,  to  disinherit. 

Deracinate,  to  root  up. 

Derogate,  degraded. 

Descant,  to  harangue  upon ;  also, 
a  term  in  music. 

Deserved,  deserving. 

Design,  to  mark  out. 

Despatched,  bereft. 

Detected,  suspected. 

Ditch,  do  it. 

Dickon,  Richard. 

Die.  gaming. 

Diet,  to  compel  to  fast. 

Diffused,  wild,  irregular. 

D'gress.  to  deviate  from  what  is 
right. 

Digression,  transgression 

Dildos.  the  burthen  of  a  song. 

Dint,  impression. 


Disable,  to  undervalue. 

Disappointed,  unprepared. 

Discandy,  to  dissolve 

Disclose,  to  hatch. 

Discontents,  malcontents. 

Discourse,  reason. 

Disease,  uneasiness,  discontent- 
Diseases,  sayings. 

Disgrace,  hardship,  injury. 

Dishabited,  dislodged. 

Dislike,  displease. 

Dislimn,  to  unpaint,  obliterate. 

Disme,  tenth,  or  tithe. 

Disnatured,  wanting  natural  af- 
fection, [closure. 

Dispark,  to  destroy  a  park  or  in- 

Disperge,  to  sprinkle. 

Disponge,  to  discharge  as  a  sponge. 

Dispose^  disposal,  command. 

Dispose,  to  make  terms. 

Disposition,  frame. 

Disseat,  displace,  dispose. 

Dissemble,  to  gloss  over,  disguise. 

Dissembling,  putting  dissimilar 
things  together. 

Distained.  unstained. 

Distaste,  to  corrupt. 

Distemper,  intoxication. 

Distemperatuie,  perturbation. 

Distempered,  out  of  humor. 

Distraught,  distracted. 

Distractions,  detachments,  sepa- 
rate bodies. 

Divert,  to  turn  aside. 

Division,  a  lerm  in  music. 

Doff,  to  put  ofT. 

Dole,  alms,  distribution,  lot. 

Dolphin,  the  dauphin. 

Don,  to  put  on,  to  do  on. 

Done  to  death,  killed. 

Done,  expended,  consumed. 

Done  upon  the  gad,  suddenly. 

Dotant,  dotard. 

Double,  full  of  duplicity. 

Double  vouchers,  a  law  term. 

Doubt,  to  fear. 

Dout,  to  do  out,  extinguish. 

Dowle.  a  feather. 

Down-gyved,  hanging  down,  like 
what  confines  the  fetters  round 
the  ancles. 

Draught,  the  jakes. 

Draw,  to  withdraw. 

Drawn,  emboweiled. 

Drawn  fox,  one  which  is  trailed 
over  the  ground,  to  deceive 
the  hounds. 


GLOSSARY. 


xxxni 


Drachmas,  a  Greek  coin. 
Dressings,  appearances  of  virtue. 
Drew,  assembled. 
Drive,  to  fly  with  impetuosity. 
Drollery,  a  puppet-shew. 
Drugs,  di'udges. 
Drumble,  to  act  lazily. 
Ducdame  (due  ad  me),  bring  him 
to  me,  the  burthen  of  a  song. 
Dudgeon,  the  handle  of  a  dagger. 
Due,  to  endue,  to  deck. 
Dullard,  a  stupid  person. 
Dump,  a  mournful  elegy. 
Diip,  to  do  up,  to  lift  up. 
Dull,  gentle  soothing. 
Dumb,  to  make  silent. 
Duke,  a  leader. 
Duiance,  some  lasting  kind  of  stuff. 

E. 

Eager  (from  aigre,  Ft.),  sour,  harsh. 

Eanlings,  lambs. 

Ear,  to  plough. 

Ear-kissing;  whispering 

Easy,  slight,  inconsiderable. 

Eche,  to  eke  out. 

Ecstasy,  madness. 

Effects,  affections;   also    actions, 

deeds  effected. 
Eftest,  readiest. 
Egypt,  a  gipsy. 

Eld,  old  time ;  also,  aged  persons. 
Element,  initiation. 
Elf,  done  by  elves,  or  fairies. 
Elvish-marked,  marked  by  elves. 
Emballing,  distinguished    by  the 

ball,  the  emblem  of  royalty. 
Embare,  to  expose. 
Embarquements,  impediments. 
Embossed,  inclosed,  swollen,  puffy. 
Embowelled,  exhausted. 
Embraced,  indulged  in. 
Empeiicutick,  empirical. 
Empery,  sovereign  power. 
Emulous,  envious,  jealous. 
Emulation,  envj. 
Encave,  to  hide. 
Endart,  to  dart  forth. 
Enfeoff,  to  invest  with  possession. 
Engross,  tc  fatten. 
Engaged,  delivered  as  an  hostage. 
Engrossments,  accumulation. 
Enkindle,  to  stimulate. 
Enmesh,  to  inclose,  as  in  meshes. 
Enmew  (in  falconry),  to  force  to 

lie  in  cover. 
Enridged,  bordered. 
Vol.  I.  —  1 


Ensconce,  to  secure  in  a  safe 
place,  to  fortify. 

Enseamed,  greasy. 

Enseer,  to  dry  up. 

Enshield,  concealed. 

Ensteeped,  immersed. 

Entertainment,  pay;  also,  being 
received  into  service. 

Entreatments,  favors ;  also,  ob- 
jects of  entreaty. 

Envy,  aversion,  malice. 

Enviously,  angrily. 

Ephesian,  a  cant  term. 

Erring,  errant,  wandering. 

Escape,  illegitimate  child. 

Escoted,  paid. 

Esil,  or  eisil,  a  river. 

Esperance,  motto  of  the  Percy 
family. 

Espials,  spies. 

Essential,  existent,  real. 

Estimate,  price. 

Estimation,  conjecture. 

Estridges,  ostriches. 

Eterne.  eternal. 

Even,  to  make  even,  or  evident 

Even  christian,  fellow-christian. 

Evils,  Jakes. 

Examined,  doubted. 

Excellent  differences,  distinguish 
ed  excellencies. 

Excrement,  the  beard. 

Execute,  to  use  or  employ. 

Executors,  executioners. 

E.xercise,  exhortation. 

Exhale,  to  breathe  one's  last. 

Exhaust,  to  draw  forth. 

Exhibition,  allowance. 

Exigent,  end.  exigency. 

Exorcism,  the  raising  of  spirits. 

Expect,  expectation. 

Expedience,  expedition. 

Expedient,  expeditious. 

Expediently,  e.xpeditiously. 

Expostulate,  to  discuss. 

Exsufflicate,  bubble-like. 

Extend,  to  seize. 

Extent,  violence,  seizure. 

Extern,  external. 

Extremity,  calamity. 

Expiate,  to  end. 

Exposture,  exposure. 

Express,  to  reveal. 

Expulsed,  expelled. 

Extracting,  distracting. 

P>xtravagant,  wanderirg. 

Eyas  musket,  a  young  hawk 


XXXIV 


GLOSSARY. 


Eyases,  nestlings. 
Eyliads,  eyes. 
Eyne,  eyes. 
Eyry,  a  nt-st  of  hawks. 
Eysel,  vinegar. 


Face,  locarry  a  foolish  appearance. 

Face-royal,  a  privileged  face. 

Faciiioions,  wicked. 

F&ct.  guilt. 

Factious,  active. 

Faculty,  exercise  of  powe*. 

Fadge,  to  suit. 

Fading?,  a  dance. 

Faith.'fidelity. 

Faithfully,  fervently. 

Fain,  fond. 

Fair,  for  fairness. 

Faitors.  traitors. 

Falsing,  falsifying. 

Falsely,  illegally,  dishonestly. 

Familiar,  a  demon. 

Fancies  and  good-nights,  little 
poems  so  called. 

Fancy,  love. 

Fancy-free,  clear  of  love. 

Fang,  to  seize. 

Fans,  ancient. 

Fantastical,  imaginative. 

Fantasticoes,  affected  persons. 

Fap,  beaten,  drunk. 

Farced,  stuffed. 

Fardel  or  Farthel,  a  burthen. 

Fashions,  the  farcens,  a  disease 
of  horses. 

Fat,  dull. 

Favour,  countenance. 

Favours,  features. 

Fear,  to  intimidate,  danger. 

Feared,  afraid. 

Fearful,  timorous;  also,  formid- 
able. 

Feat,  dexterous. 

Feated,  made  neat. 

Feature,  beauty. 

Federacv,  confederate. 

Fee-grief,  a  peculiar  sorrow. 

Feeder,  a  dependant. 

Feeding,  maintenance. 

Feere,  or  pheere,  a  companion. 

Feet,  footing 

Fell,  skin. 

Fell  of  hair,  capilitium,  any  part 
covered  with  hair. 

Fell-feats,  savage  actions. 

Fence,  the  art  of  self-defence. 


Feodary,  a  confederate. 

Festinately,  hastily. 

Festival  terms,  elegant  phrase. 

Fet,  fetched. 

Few,  in  brief. 

Fico,  a  term  of  contempt. 

Fielded,  in  the  field  of  battle. 

Fights,  clothes  hung  round  a  ship 

to  conceal  the  men  from  the 

enemy. 
File,  a  list. 
Filed,  defiled. 

Filed,  gone  an  equal  pace  with. 
Fills,  the  shafts. 
Filths,  common  sewers. 
Finch  egg,  a  gaudy  fellow. 
Fine,    the    conclusion,    to    make 

shewy,  artful. 
Fine  issues,  great  consequences. 
Fineless,  boundlesS;  endless. 
Finer,  final. 
Firago  for  Virago. 
Fire-drake,  will-o'-the-wisp,  or  a 

fire-work. 
^Fire-new,  quite  new. 
Firk,  to  chastise. 
First-house,  chief  branch  of  the 

family. 
Firstlings,  first  produce. 
Fit,  a  division  of  a  song. 
Fitchew,  a  polecat. 
Fit  o'  the  face,  a  grimace. 
Fits  o'  the  season,  disorders  ot  the 

season. 
Fives,  a  distemper  in  horses. 
Fixure.  position. 
Flap-dragon,     inflammable     stuff 

swallow  ed  by  topers. 
Flap-jack,  a  pancake. 
Flaw,  a  sudden  gust  of  wind. 
Flecked,  spotted,  streaked. 
Fleet,  for  float. 
Fleshment,  performance. 
Flewed,  deep-mouthed. 
Flibbertigibbet,  a  flend. 
Flickering,  fluttering. 
Flight,  a  sort  of  shooting. 
Flote,  a  wave. 
Flourish,    to   ornament ;    also,   to 

sanction. 
Flout,  to  wave  in  mockery. 
Flush,  mature. 
Foeman,  an  enemy  in  war. 
Foin,  to  thrust  in  fencing. 
Foizon,  plenty. 
Folly,  depravity. 
Fond,  foolish 


GLOSSARY. 


XXXV 


Fo<»ls'  zanies,  baubles  surmounted 
with  a  foci's  head. 

Foot-cloth,  hoise-covering. 

For,  because. 

Force,  to  stuff. 

Forced,  false. 

Forbid,  accursed. 

Fordid,  destroyed. 

Fordo,  to  undo. 

Foredone,  overcome. 

Forefended,  forbidden. 

Forepast,  already  had. 

Fore-slow,  to  loiter. 

Forgetive,  inventive. 

Forked,  horned. 

Formal,  in  form. 

Former,  foremost. 

Forspent,  exhausted. 

Forspoke,  contiadicted. 

Forsiow,  delay. 

Forwearied,  worn  out. 

Fox,  a  sword. 

Foxship.  mean,  cunning. 

Frampdld,  penvish. 

Frank,  a  sty. 

Franklin,  a  small  freeholder. 

Frayed,  frightened. 

Free,  artless. 

Fret,  the  stop  of  a  musical  instru- 
ment. 

Friend,  a  lover. 

Friend,  for  friendship,  to  befriend. 

Frippery,  an  old  clothes  shop. 

Frize,  a  Welch  cloth. 

From,  in  opposition  to. 

Fronted,  opposed. 

Frontier,  forehead. 

Frontlet,  a  forehead  cloth. 

Frush,  to  break  or  bruise. 

Fulham,  false  dice. 

Fulsome,  obscene. 

Furnishings,  colours,  pretences. 

Fustilarian.  fusty  fellow. 

Fulfilling,  filling  to  the  brim. 

Full,  complete. 

Fumiter,  fumitory. 

Furnished,  dressed. 

G. 

Gabardine,  a  loose  cloak. 
Gad,  a  sharp-pointed  instiument. 
Gain-giving,  misgiving. 
Gamester,  a  wanton 
Gait,  passage. 
Galliard.  a  dance. 
Gallias.ses,  ships, 
(iallimaufiy,  a  medley 


\  Gallow,  to  sea  e. 
Gallow-glasses,  Irish  foot-soldiers. 
GarboilS;  commotions. 
Gaping,  shouting. 
Garish,  gauily. 
Garnered,  treasured  up. 
Giisted,  frighted. 
Gautly,  a  festival. 
Gaunt,  meagre. 
Gawd,  a  bauble. 
Gaze,  attention. 
Gear,  things  or  matters 
Geek,  a  fool. 
General,  generality 
Generosity,  high  birth. 
Generous,  nobly  born. 
Gennels.  Spanish  horses. 
Gentle,  noble,  high  born. 
Gentry,  complaisance. 
German,  akin. 

Germins,  seeds  begun  to  sprout. 
Ge.st,  a  stage  or  journey. 
Gib,  a  cat. 
Giglot,  a  wanton. 
Gilder,  a  coin,  value  2s. 
Gilt,  gold  money. 
Giinmal,  a  ring  or  engine. 
Ging,  a  gang. 
Gild,  a  sarcasm. 
Glaire.  a  swoid. 
Gleek,  to  joke. 
Glib,  to  geld. 
Glooming,  gloomy. 
Gloze,  to  expound. 
Glut,  to  swallow. 
Gnailed,  knotty. 
God  'ielil  you,  God  yield  you. 
Gongarian,  Hungarian. 
Gootl-deed,  indeed. 
Good-den,  good  evening. 
Good-jer,  the  venereal  disease. 
Gorbellied,  corpulent. 
Gospelled,  puiitunic. 
Goss,  furze. 
Gossamer,  atoms  that  float  in  the 

sun- beams. 
Gourds,  dice. 
Gouts,  drops. 
Go  your  gait,  go  away. 
Grained,  furrowed,  like  the  grain 

of  wood  ;  also,  died  ingrain. 
Gramercy,  great  thanks. 
Grange,  a  lone  firm-house. 
Gratillity,  gratuity. 
Grats,  pleases. 
Gratulate,  to  be  rejoiced  m. 
Grave,  to  entomb. 


XXXVl 


GLOSSARY. 


Grave-man,  a  man  in  his  grave. 

Graves  or  Greaves,  leg-armour. 

Greasily,  grossly. 

Greek,  a  bawd. 

Greenly,  unskilfullj  . 

Green-sleeves,  an  old  song. 

Grise  or  Grize,  a  slep. 

Grossly,  palpably. 

Groundlings,  those  who  sat  or 
stood  on  the  ground  in  the 
old  theatres ;  the  common 
people. 

Guard,  to  fringe. 

Guarded,  ornamented. 

Guerdon,  a  reward. 

Gules  (in  heraldry),  red. 

Gulf,  the  swallow,  the  throat. 

Guiled,  treacherous. 

Guinea-hen,  a  prostitute. 

Gun-stones,  cannon-balls. 

Gurnet,  a  fish. 

Gust,  to  taste. 

Gyve,  to  shackle. 

Gyves,  shackles. 

H. 

Hack,  to  become  cheap. 

Haggard,  wild  ;  also,  wild  hawk. 

Hair,  complexion,  or  character. 

Hall !  make  room. 

Happily,  accidentally. 

Happy,  accomplished. 

Hardiment,  bravery. 

Harlocks.  wild  mustard. 

Harlot,  a  male  cheat. 

Harness,  armour. 

Harrows,  subdues. 

Harry,  to  harass. 

Having,  possessions. 

Haviour,  behaviour. 

Haught,  haughty. 

Haughty,  elevated. 

Halcyon,  a  bird. 

Hallidon,  doom  at  judgment-day. 

Handsaw,  hernshaw,  a  hawk. 

Hangers,  that  which  suspends  the 

sword. 
Harlotry,  vulgar,  filthy. 
Hatch,  to  engrave. 
Haunt,  company. 
Hay,  a  fencing  term. 
Heat,  heated. 
Hebenon,  henbane. 
Hefted,  heaved,  agitated. 
Hell,  a  dungeon  in  a  prison. 
Helmed,  steered  through. 
Hence,  henceforward. 


Henchman,  a  page  of  hoiioui. 

Heiit,  to  seize. 

Herb  of  grace,  rue. 

Hermits,  beadsmen. 

Hest,  command 

Hight,  called. 

Hilding,  a  poltroon. 

Hiren,  a  harlot. 

His,  often  used  for  its. 

Hoar,  hoary,  mouldy. 

Hob-nob,  as  it  may  happen. 

Hoist,  hoisted. 

Hold,  to  esteem. 

Hold-taking,  bear-handling. 

Holla  !  a  term  of  the  manege. 

Holy,  faithful. 

Hoodman-blindman,     blindman'8 

buff. 
Horologe,  clock. 
Hot-house,  a  bagnio. 
Hox,  to  ham-string. 
Huggermugger,  secretly. 
Hull,  to  float  without  guidance 
Humming,  o'ervvhelming. 
Humorous,  humid. 
Hungry,  unproiilic. 
Hunt-counter,  worthless  dog. 
Hunts-up,  a  hunting  tune. 
Hnrly,  noise. 
Hurtle,  to  dash  against. 
Hurtling,  boisterous  merriment. 
Husbandry,  thriftiness. 
Huswife,  a  jilt. 
Hyen,  hyaena. 

I. 

Icebrook,  temper. 

Idle,  barren. 

Ifecks,  in  faith. 

[gnomy,  ignominy. 

Ill-inhabited,  ill-lodged. 

Illustrious,  without  lustre. 

Images,  children,  representatives. 

Imbare,  to  expose. 

Immanity,  barbarity. 

Immediacy,  close  connexion. 

Imp,  progeny. 

Impair,  unsitable,  unequal. 

Impartial,  partial. 

Impawned,  wagered. 

Imperious,  imperial. 

Impetticos,  to  impetticoat,  or  ini' 

pocket. 
Importance,  importunity. 
Important,  importunate. 
Im[)ose,  injunction. 
Impositions,  command.^. 


GLOSSARY. 


XXXVll 


Impossible,  incredible. 

Impout.  to  supply  the  deficiency. 

Impress,  a  device  or  motto. 

Incapable,  unintelligent. 

Incarnadine,  to  dye  red. 

Incensed,  incited. 

Inclip,  to  embrace. 

Include,  to  conclude. 

Inclusive,  enclosed. 

Incompt.  subject  to  account. 

Incony  or  Kony,  delicate,  pretty. 

Incorrect,  ill-regulated. 

Indent,  to  sign  an  indenture. 

Index,  something  preparatory. 

Indifferent,  impartial. 

Indigest,  shapeless. 

Indite,  to  convict. 

Induction,  preface,  prelude. 

Indurance,  delay. 

Informal,  deranged. 

Infinite,  extent  or  power. 

Ingaged,  unengaged. 

Ingraft,  rooted. 

Inhabitable,  not  habitable. 

Inherit,  to  possess. 

Inhibit,  to  forbid,  decline. 

In  his  eye,  in  his  presence. 

Inhooped,  inclosed. 

Ink-horn  mate,  a  book-mate. 

Inkle,  worsted  tape. 

Initiate,  young. 

Inland,  civilized. 

Innocent,  a  fool. 

In  place,  present. 

Insane,  that  which  makes  insane. 

Insanie,  insanity. 

Insconce.  to  fortify. 

Insculped,  engraven. 

Inseparate,  inseparable. 

Instances,  motives. 

Insuit,  solicitation. 

Integrity,  consistency 

Intend,  to  pretend. 

Intending,  regarding. 

Intendment,  intention. 

Intention,  eager  desire. 

Intentively,  attentively. 

Interres.sed,  interested. 

Intergatories,  interrogatories. 

In  that,  because. 

Intrenchant,     which     cannot     be 

cut. 
Intiinse,  intricate. 
Inwardness,  intimacy. 
Iron,  clad  in  armor. 
Irregulous,  licentious. 


Issues,  consequences. 
Iteration,  repetition. 
Itination,  recitation. 


Jack-a-Lent,  a  puppet  thrown  at  in 
Lent. 

Jack-guardant,  a  jack  in  office. 

Jack-sauce,  a  saucy  fellow. 

Jaded,  worthless. 

Jar,  the  noise  made  by  the  pendu- 
lum of  a  clock. 

Jaunce,  jaunt. 

Jauncing,  jaunting. 

Jay,  a  wanton. 

Jesses,  straps  of  leather,  fastened 
round  hawks'  legs. 

Jest,  to  play  a  part  in  a  mask. 

Jet.  to  strut. 

Jig,  a  ludicrous  dialogue  in  verse. 

Journal,  daily. 

Jovial,  belonging  to  Jove. 

Jump,  to  suit,  just. 

Justicer,  a  judge. 

Jut,  to  encroach. 

Jutty,  to  project. 

Juvenal,  a  youth. 

K. 

Kam,  awry. 

Keech,  a  lump  of  tallow 
Keel,  to  cool. 
Keisar,  Caesar. 

Kernes,  light-armed  soldiers. 
Key-cold,  cold  as  iron. 
Kicksy-wicksy,    term   of    endear- 
ment for  a  wife. 
Kindly,  natural. 
Kinged,  ruled. 
Kirtle,  a  woman's  garment. 
Knap,  to  break  short. 
Knave,  servant. 
Knots,  figures  planted  in  box. 
Know,  to  acknowledge. 
Know  of,  to  consider. 


Labras,  lips. 

Laced  mutton,  a  prostitute. 

Lackeying,  moving  like  a  lackey 

Lag,  the  rabble. 

Lakin,  ladykin,  or  little  lady. 

Lances,  lance-men. 

Lands,  landing-places. 

Land-rakers,  wanderers  on  foot 

Large,  licentious. 


GLOSSARY 


Lass-lorn,  forsaken  bj'  his  mistress. 

Latrh,  to  lay  hold  of. 

Latched  or  Letched,  licked  over. 

Lated,  benighted. 

Latten,  tliin  as  a  lath. 

Launch,  lance. 

Laund,  lawn. 

Laundering,  wetting. 

Lavoltas,  a  kind  of  dances. 

Lay,  a  wager. 

Leaguer,  a  camp. 

Leasing,  falsehood. 

Leather-coats,  apples. 

Leavened,  matured. 

Leech,  a  physician. 

Leer,  feature,  complexion. 

Leet,  petty  court  of  justice. 

Leg,  obeisance. 

Legerity,  nirnbleness. 

Leges,  alleges. 

Leiger,  resident. 

Leman,  a  lover  or  mistress. 

Leno,  a  pander. 

Lenten,  spare. 

Let,  to  hinder. 

Lethe,  death. 

L'Envoy,  end  of  a  poem. 

Lewd,  idle. 

Libbard,  or  Lubbar,  a  Jeopard. 

Liberal,  licentious  in  speech. 

Liberty,  libertinism. 

License,  licentiousness. 

Liefest,  dearest. 

Lieger,  an  ambassador. 

Lifter,  a  thief. 

Light  o'  love,  a  dance  tune. 

Lightly,  commonly. 

Like,  to  compare. 

Liking,  condition  of  body. 

Likelihood,  similitude. 

Likeness,  speciousness. 

Limbeck,  a  vessel  used  in  distill- 
ing. 

Limbo,  a  place  supposed  near  hell. 

Lime,  bird-lime;  to  cement. 

Limited,  appointed. 

Limits,  estimates. 

Lined,  delineated. 

Linstock,  the  staff  to  which  the 
match  is  fixed  when  ordnance 
is  flred. 

List,  limit. 

Lither,  flexible. 

Little,  miniature, 
livelihood,  appearance  of  life. 

Livery,  a  law-phrase. 

Living,  estate,  property. 


Living,  speaking,  manifest. 

Loach,  a  small  prolific  fish. 

Lob,  a  dullard,  a  looby. 

Lockram,  a  kind  of  linen. 

Lode-star,  the  polar  star. 

Loffe,  to  laugh. 

Loggats,  a  game. 

Long  purples,  a  flower. 

Longing,  belonging. 

Longly,  longingly. 

Loofed,  brought  close  to  the  wind 

Loon,  a  base  fellow. 

Looped,  full  of  apertures. 

Lop,  the  branches. 

Lordling,  a  little  lord. 

Lot,  a  prize. 

Lottery,  allohnent. 

Love  in  idleness,  a  flower. 

Lover,  sometimes  for  mistress 

Lowt,  a  clown. 

Lowted,  treated  with  contempt. 

Lozel,  a  worthle.^s  fellow. 

Lubbar,  a  leopard. 

Lullaby,  cradle. 

Lunes,  lunacy. 

Lurch,  to  win,  to  purloin. 

Lure,  a  decoy  for  a  hawk. 

Lush,  rank,  luscious. 

Lust,  inclination,  will. 

Lustic,  lusty,  cheerful. 

Lusty,  saucy. 

Luxurious,  lascivious. 

Luxury,  lust. 

Lym,  or  Lyme,  a  bloodhound. 

M. 

Mace,  a  sceptre. 
Mad,  wild,  inconstant. 
Magot-pie,  a  magpie. 
Magnifico,  a  Venetian  potentate. 
Magnificent,  boastful. 
Mailed,  wrapt  in  armor. 
Make,  to  bar,  to  shut. 
Makeless,  maleless,  widowed- 
Male,  a  bag. 
Malkin,  a  trull. 
Mallecho,  mischief. 
Maltworms,  tipplers. 
Mammering,  stammering. 
Mammets,  puppets. 
Mammock,  to  tear. 
Man,  to  tame  a  hawk  ;  the  devil. 
Mandragora.  a  soporific  plant 
Mandrake,  a  root. 
Mankind,  a  wizard. 
Manacle,  a  handcuff. 
Manner,  in  the  fact. 


GLOSSARY. 


XXXIX 


Man-queller,  a  man-killer. 

Marches,  oonfiiies. 

Marchpune,  a  svveatmeat. 

Margeiit.  maigiii. 

Martial  iiaud.  a  careless  scrawl. 

Martlemas,  the  latter  spring. 

Mated,  confounded. 

Material,  full  of  matter. 

Maugre,  in  spite  of,  notwithstand- 
ing. 

Maund,  a  basket. 

Meacock,  a  dastard. 

Mealed,  mingled. 

Mean,  the  middle;  the  tenor  in 
music. 

Means,  inte'est. 

Measure,  the  reach;  a  solemn 
dance;  means. 

Meazels,  lepers. 

Medal,  portrait. 

Meddle,  to  mingle. 

Medicine,  a  she-physician. 

Meet,  a  match. 

Meiney,  domestics. 

Memories,  memorials. 

Memory,  memorial. 

Mends,  the  means. 

Mephistophilus,  a  familiar  spirit. 

Mercatante,  a  merchant. 

Merchant,  a  low  fellow. 

Mere,  entire,  absolute. 

Mered  question,  the  sole  question. 

Merely,  entiiely. 

Merit,  a  reward. 

Mermaid,  a  syren. 

Metaphysical,  supernatural. 

Mete-yard,  measuring  yard. 

Mewed,  confined. 

Micher,  a  truant.  [chief. 

Miching  Mallecho,  a  secret  mis- 
Mince,  to  walk  affectedly. 

Minding,  reminding. 

Minnow,  a  verv  small  fish. 

Minstrelsy,  ofRci!  of  minstrel; 

Minute-jack,  Jack-o'-lantern. 

Miscreate,  illegitimate,  spurious. 

Misdoubt,  tr  suspect. 

Miser,  a  miserable  being. 

Miser)',  avarice. 

Misprised,  mistaken. 

Misprising,  despising. 

Missives,  messengers. 

Mistempered,  angry. 

Mistful.  ready  to  weep. 

Misthink,  to  think  ill. 

Mistress,  the  jack  in  bowling. 

Mo,  more. 


Mobled,  veiled,  muffled. 

Model,  mould. 

Modern,  new-fangl'!d 

Motlesty,  moderation 

Module,  model. 

Moe.  to  make  mouths. 

Moiety,  a  portion. 

Moist  star,  the  moon. 

Mollification,  softening. 

Mome,  a  blockhead. 

Momentany,  momentary. 

Monster,  to  make  monslrous. 

Month  s  mind,  a  Catholic  anniver- 
sary. 

Mood,  anger,  manner. 

Moody,  melancholy. 

Moonish.  variable. 

Mops  and  Moes,  ludicrous  antics. 

Moral,  secret  meaning. 

Morisco,  Moorish, 

Morris-pike,  Moorish  pike. 

Mort  of  the  deer,  a  tune  on  the 
death  of  the  deer. 

Mortal,  mut  lerous,  fatal. 

Mortal,  abounding. 

Mortal-staring,  killing  by  a  look. 

Mortified,  ascetic. 

Most,  greatest. 

jMot,  a  motto. 

Mother,  the  hysteric  passion. 

Motion,  divinatory  agitation. 

Motion,  desires. 

Motion,  a  puppet. 

Motions,  indignation. 

Motive,  a  mover. 

Mouldwarp,  the  mole. 

Mouse,  to  tear  to  pieces. 

Mouse,  a  term  of  endearment. 

Mouse-hunt,  a  weasel. 

Moy,  a  piece  of  money;  also,  a 
measure  of  corn. 

Much,  strange,  wonderful. 

Muck-water,  drain  of  a  dunghill. 

Muffler,  a  wrapper  for  the  lowei 
part  of  the  face. 

Muleters,  muleteers 

Mulled,  softened. 

Mnlti()lied,  multitudinous. 

Multiplying,  multiplied. 

Multitudinous,  full  of  multifudeB- 

Mure,  a  wall. 

Murky,  dark. 

Must,  a  scramble. 

N. 
Napkin,  handkerchief. 
Napless,  threadbare. 


xl 


GLOSSARY. 


Native,  natmally. 

Nature,  natuial  parejit. 

Naughty,  unfit. 

Nay-word,  a  by-word. 

Neb,  the  mouth. 

Neekls,  needles. 

Nesleotion,  neglect. 

Nen;  the  fist. 

Nephew,  any  lineal  descendant. 

Nether-stocks,  stockings. 

Newness,  innovation. 

Newt,  the  eft. 

Next,  jiearest. 

Nice,  trifling. 

Nick,  to  set  the  mark  of  folly  on  ; 

reckoniiig. 
Night-rule,  frolic  of  the  night. 
Nighted.  made  dark  as  night. 
NiTl,  shall  not. 
Nine  meii's  morris,  a  game. 
Noble,  a  coin. 
Nobless,  nobleness. 
Noble-touch,  unalloyed  metal. 
Noddy,  fool,  a  game  at  cards. 
Noise,  music. 
Nonce,  on  purpose. 
Non  com.  nonplus. 
Nook-shotter,    that   which   shoots 

into  capes. 
Northern  man,  a  clown. 
Note,  notice. 

Nott-pated,  round-headed. 
Nourish,  to  nurse. 
Noursle,  to  fondle  as  a  nurse. 
Novum,  a  game  at  dice. 
Nowl,  a  head. 
Nut-hook,  a  thief. 

0. 

Odd-even,  the  interval  between 
twelve  at  night  and  one  in  the 
morning. 

Od's-pitikins,  God  me  pity. 

Oeliads,  glances  of  the  eye. 

O's,  circles,  pockmarks. 

Obligations,  bonds. 

Obsequious,  funeral. 

Observation,  celebration. 

Obstacle,  ob.stinate. 

Occnrrents.  incidents. 

Occupation,  mechanics. 

O'er-raught,  over-reached. 

O'ercrow,  overcome. 

O'erlooked,  fascinated. 

Of,  through. 

Offering,  the  assailant. 

Office,  service. 


Offices,  culinary  apartments 

Of  all  loves,  by  all  means. 

Old,  frequent. 

Old  age,  ages  past. 

Once,  sometime. 

Oneyers,  bankers. 

Opal,  a  precious  stone. 

Operant,  active. 

Opinion,  obstinacy,  coaceit. 

Opposite,  adverse. 

Opposition,  combat. 

Or  e'er,  before. 

Orbs,  fairy  circles. 

Orchard,  a  garden. 

Ordinance,  rank. 

Order,  measures. 

Orgulous,  haughty. 

Osprey,  an  eagle. 

Ostent,  ostentation,  appearance. 

Ostentation,  appearance. 

Overblow,  to  drive  away. 

Overscutched,   whipped   at   cart's 

tail. 
Overture,  opening,  discovery. 
Ounce,  a  tiger-cat. 
Ouph,  fairy. 

Ousel-cock,  the  cock  blackbird. 
Out,  full,  complete. 
Outvied,  defeated,  a  term  at  the 

game  of  gleek. 
Outward,  not  in  the  secret. 
Owe,  to  possess,  to  own. 
Oxlip,  the  great  cowslip. 


Pack,  to  bareain  with. 

Pack,  an  accomplice. 

Packing,  plotting,  fraud. 

Paddock,  a  toad. 

Pagan,  a  dissolute  person. 

Pageant,  a  dumb  show. 

Paid,  punished. 

Palabras,  words. 

Pale,  dominions. 

Pale,  to  encircle  with  a  crown. 

Pall,  to  wrap,  to  invest. 

Palled,  vapid. 

Palmers,  pilgrims. 

Palmy,  victorious. 

Paly,  pale. 

Palter,  to  juggle,  to  cheat. 

Pang,  to  afflict. 

Paper,  to  commit  to  writing. 

Parcel,  part,  to  reckon  up. 

Parcel-bawd,  half-bawd. 

Parcel-gilt,  partially  gilt. 

Parish-top,  a  large   top,  formerly 


GLOSSARY. 


xli 


kept  in  every  village,  to  be 
whipped  for  exercise. 

Parle,  parley. 

Parlous,  perilous,  shrewd. 

Part,  to  depart. 

Parted,  endowed,  shared. 

Particular,  private. 

Parlizan,  a  pike. 

Parts,  party. 

Pash,  to  strike  j  a  head. 

Pashed,  crushed. 

Pass,  to  decide,  assure,  convey 

Pass  on,  to  decide. 

Passed,  eminent. 

Passing,  surpassing. 

Passion,  suffering. 

Passionate,  grieving. 

Passioning,  being  m  a  passion. 

Passy  Measure,  a  dance. 

Paritor,  an  apparitor,  or  officer  of 
the  bishop's  court. 

Pastry,  the  pastry  room. 

Patch,  a  fool. 

Patched,  in  a  fool's  coat. 

Path,  to  walk. 

Pathetical,  promise-breaker. 

Patient,  to  soothe. 

Patine,  a  dish  used  with  the  cha- 
lice, in  administering  the  Eu- 
charist. 

Paucas,  few. 

Pavin,  a  dance. 

Pay,  to  beat. 

Peat,  pet,  darling, 

Pedascule,  a  pedant. 

Peer-out,  to  peep  out. 

Peevish,  foolish. 

Peize,  to  weiyh,  keep  in  suspense. 

Penthesilia,  Amazon. 

Pelting,  paltry. 

Pennons,  small  flags. 

Perdu,  one  of  the  forlorn  hope. 

Perdurable,  lasting. 

Perdy  (Par  Dieu),  a  French  oath. 

Perfect,  certain,  well-informed. 

Perfections,  liver,  brain,  and  heart. 

Periapts,  charms  worn  about  the 
neck. 

Perjure,  a  perjurer. 

Person,  parson. 

Perspectives,  spy-glasses. 

Pervert,  to  avert. 

Pestilence,  poison. 

Pew-fellow,  a  companion. 

Pheere,  companion. 

Phisnomy,  Physiognomy. 

Pheeze.  to  tease,  to  currycomb. 


Phill-horse.  shaft-horse. 

Pick,  to  pilch. 

Pick-axes,  fingers. 

Picked,  foppish. 

Pickers,  the  hands. 

Picking,  insignificant. 

Pickt-hatch,    a    place    noted    foi 

brothels. 
Pick-thank,  a  parasite. 
Piece,  a  contemptuous  term  for  a 

woman. 
Pied  ninny,  a  fool. 
Pieled,  shaven. 
Pight,  pitched,  fixed. 
Pilcher,  the  scabbard. 
Piled,  deprived  of  hair. 
Pilled,  pillaged. 
Pin,  a  term  in  archery. 
Pin  and  web,  disorder  of  the  eye 
Pinfold,  a  pound. 

Pix,  the  box  that  contains  the  host 
Place,  a  mansion. 
Placket,  a  petticoat. 
Plague,  punish. 
Plainly,  openly. 
Plaited,  complicated. 
Plantage,  plantain. 
Planched,  made  of  planks. 
Plant,  the  foot. 
Plates,  silver  money. 
Platforms,  schemes. 
Plausive,  gracious,  applauded. 
Pleached,  folded. 
Plot,  portion. 
Plurisy,  plethory. 
Poir^t,  negative. 
Point,    hooks    used   to  fasten  nj 

breeches. 
Point-de-vice,  exactly. 
Points,  tags  to  laces. 
Poize,  weight. 
Polack,  a  Polander. 
Polled,  bared. 
Pomander,  a  perfume  ball. 
Pomewater,  an  apple. 
Poor-john,  salteil  fish. 
Popinjay,  a  parrot. 
Popularity,   intercourse   with   the 

vulgar. 
Porpenpine,  porcupine. 
Port,  deportment. 
Port,  a  gate. 
Portable,  bearable. 
Portance,  behaviour. 
Possess,  to  inform. 
Potch,  to  push. 
Potents,  potentates. 


xHi 


GLOSSARY. 


Poulter,  poulterer. 

Pouiicet-box,  a  peifume-box. 

Power,  an  army. 

Practise,  strataeems. 

Prank,  to  aiiorii. 

Precepi,  a  justice's  warrant. 

Precisian,  a  puritan. 

Preeclies,  ilogged. 

Prefer,  to  offer. 

Pregnant,  ready. 

Prenominate,  fore-named. 

Prest,  ready. 

Pretend,  to  intend. 

Prevent,  to  anticipate. 

Pricket,  a  buck  of  the  second  year. 

Prig,  to  pilier. 

Prime,  sprighlliness  of  youth. 

Primer,  of  more  consequence. 

Primero,  a  game  at  cards. 

Princox,  a  coxcomb. 

Probal.  probable. 

Prodigious,  portentous. 

Preface,  much  good  may  it  do  you. 

Profane,  grossly  talkative. 

Progress,  a  royal  journey  of  state. 

Prognostication,  almanack. 

Project,  to  shape. 

Prolixious,  coy,  delaying. 

Proof,  puberty. 

Prompture,  suggestion. 

Prone,  humble,  also  prompt. 

Propagate,  to  advance,  to  improve. 

Pro}jer,  handsome. 

Proper-false,  deceitful. 

Propertied,  possessed. 

Properties,  incidental  necessaries 
to  a  theatre. 

Property,  due  performance. 

Propose,  to  imagine,  to  converse. 

Proposing,  conversing. 

Provand,  provender. 

Provost,  sheriff  or  gaoler. 

Prune,  to  plume. 

Pugging,  thievish. 

Puke,  a  sort  of  russet  colour. 

Purchase,  stolen  goods. 

Purchased,  unjustly  acquired. 

purl,  to  curl. 

Purlieu,  border. 

Pursuivants,  heralds. 

Pussel,  a  low  wench. 

Put  to  know,  forced  to  acknow- 
ledge. 

Putter-out,  one  who  lends  money 
on  interest. 

Putting-on,  incitement. 

Puttock,  a  hawk. 


Q. 

Quail,  to  sink,  to  faint,  to  be  van 

quished. 
Quaint,  fantastical,  also  graceful. 
Quaintly,  skillully. 
Quaint-mazes,  a  game. 
Quaked,  lenified. 
Quality,  confederates;  condition 
Quarrel,  a  quarreler. 
Quarry,  the  game  after  it  is  killed. 
Quart  d'ecu,  the  fourth  of  a  French 

crown. 
Quat,  a  scab. 
Queasy,  squeamish. 
Quell,  to  murder. 
Quench,  to  grow  cool. 
Quern,  a  handmill. 
Quest,  pursuit. 
Question,  conversation. 
Questrist,  one  who  seeks  another. 
Quests,  reports. 
Quiddits,  subtleties. 
Quietus,  discharge. 
Quillets,  law  chicane. 
Quintain,  a  post  set  up  for  various 

exercises. 
Quips,  scoffs. 
Quire,  to  play  in  concert. 
Quiver,  nimble,  active. 
Quote,  to  observe. 

R. 

R,  dog's  letter. 

Rabato,  a  neck  ornament. 

Race,  original  disposition,  also  fla- 
vour. 

Rack,  wreck. 

Rack,  to  exaggerate. 

Rack,  to  harass  by  exactions. 

Rack,  the  fleeting  away  of  clouds. 

Racking,  in  rapid  motion. 

Rag,  an  opprobrious  epithet. 

Ragged,  rugged. 

Rake,  to  cover. 

Ram,  rain. 

Rampallion,  a  strumpet. 

Rank,  rate  or  pace. 

Rank,  rapidly  grown 

Rapt,  enraptured. 

Rapture,  a  fit. 

Rarely,  curiosity. 

Rascal,  lean  deer. 

Rash  remonstrance,  pren:iature  dis- 
covery. 

Raught,  reached. 

Ravin,  to  devour  eagerly. 


GLOSSARY 


xliii 


Ravined,  glutted  with  prey. 

Rawly,  suddenly. 

Rayed,  bt'trayed. 

Razed,  slashed. 

Raze,  a  bale. 

Rear-moLise,  a  bat. 

Reason,  discourse. 

Rebeck,  a  musical  instrument. 

Recheat,  a  horn,  a  tune  to  call  the 

doiis  back. 
Receipt,  receptacle. 
Receiving,  ready  apprehension. 
Receate,  a  hunting  term. 
Reck,  to  care  for. 
Reckless,  careless. 
Record,  to  sing. 
Recorders,  a  kind  of  flute. 
Recure.  to  recover. 
Red-lattice  phrases,  alehouse  talk. 
Red-plague,  the  St.  Anthony's  lire. 
Reechy,  discoloured  with  smoke. 
Reels,  wheels. 
Refel,  to  confute. 
Refer,  to  reserve  to. 
Regard,  look. 
Regiment,  government. 
Regreet,  exchange  of  salutation. 
Reguerdon,  recompense. 
Rheumatic,  capricious. 
Relume,  to  relight. 
Remorse,  pity. 
Remotion,  removal. 
Removes,  journeys. 
Render,  to  describe. 
Renege,  to  renounce. 
Reports,  reporters. 
Reproof,  confutation. 
Repugn,  to  resist. 
Reputing,  boasting. 
Reserve,  to  preserve. 

Resolve,  to  be  assured. 

Resolve,  to  dissolve. 

Respective,  respectful. 

Respectively,  respectfully. 

Resty.  mculdy. 

Retailed,  handed  down. 

Retort,  to  refer  back. 

Reverb,  to  reverberate. 

Revolt  of  mien,  change  of  com- 
plexion. 

Revolts,  rebels. 

Rib,  t-  enclose. 

Ribald,  a  lewd  fellow. 

Rid,  to  destroy. 

Rift,  split. 

Riggish,  wanton. 

Rigol,  a  circle. 


I  Rim.  money. 

I  Ringed,  encircled. 

,  Rivage,  the  bank  or  shore. 

Rivality,  equal  rauK. 

Rivals^  partners. 

Rive,  to  hurst,  to  fire. 

Romage,  rummage,  bustle. 

Ronyon,  a  drab. 

Rood,  the  cross. 

Rook,  to  squat. 

Ropery,  roguery. 

Rope  tricks,  abusiveness 

Round,  a  diadem. 

Round,  rough. 

Rounded,  whispered. 

Roundel,  a  country  dance. 

Rounding,  whispering. 

Roundure,  a  circle. 

Rouse,  carousal. 

Roynish,  mangy. 

Royal,  a  coin. 

Ruddock,  red-breast. 

Ruff,    the  folding  of  the  top3  of 
boots. 

Ruffle,  to  be  noisy. 

Rutflinsr,  rustling. 

Rump-fed,  fed  with  ofTals. 

Ruth,  pity. 


Sacarson,  the  name  of  a  bear. 
Sacred,  accursed. 
Sacrificial,  worshipping. 
Sacring-bell,  the  bell  announcing 

the  approach  of  the  host. 
Sad  ostent,  grave  appearance. 
Sagg,  or  Svvagg,  to  sink  down. 
Sailet,  a  helmet. 
Salt,  tears. 
Saltiers,  satyrs. 
Samingo,  St.  Domingo. 
Sandied,  sandy  colour. 
Sans,  without. 
Saucy,  lascivious. 
Savage,  sylvan. 
Savageness,  wildness. 
Saw,  tenor  of  a  discourse. 
Say,  silk. 
Say,  a  sample. 
ScafToldage,     the     gal'ery    of    a 

theatre. 
Scald,  beggarly. 
Scale,  to  disperse. 
Scaled,  overreached. 
Scaling,  weighing. 
Scall,  scab. 
Scamble,  to  scramblo 


xliv 


GLOSSARY. 


Scan,  to  examine  nicely. 

Scantling,  proportion. 

Scarfed,  deforated  with  flags 

Scath,  de.struction. 

Scathful.  mischievous. 

Sconce,  the  head. 

Sconce,  a  fortification. 

Scotch,  to  brnise. 

Scrimers,  fencers. 

Scrip,  a  writing,  a  list. 

Scroyles,  scurvy  fellows. 

Scrubbed,  stunted. 

Sculls,  shoals  of  fish. 

Scutched,  whipped. 

Seal,  to  strengthen,  or  complete. 

Seam,  lard. 

Seamels,  a  bird. 

Sear,  to  stigmatize,  to  close. 

Season,  to  temper,  to  infix,  to  im- 
press. 

Seat,  throne. 

Sect,  a  cutting  in  gardening. 

Seel,  to  close  up. 

Seeling,  blinding 

Seeming,  seemly. 

Seen,  versed,  practised. 

Seld,  seldom. 

Semblably,  resemblingly. 

Seniory,  seniority. 

Sennet,  a  flourish  on  cornets. 

Sense,  sensual  desires. 

Septentrion,  the  north. 

Sequestration,  separation. 

Sere,  or  Sear,  dry. 

Serpigo,  a  tetter. 

Serve,  to  fulfil. 

Setebos,  a  demon. 

Set  of  wit,  a  term  at  tennis. 

Sessa,  be  quiet. 

Several,  separated. 

Several,  or  severell,  a  field  set 
apart  for  corn  and  grass. 

Sewer,  the  placer  of  the  dishes. 

Shame,  modesty. 

Shard-borne,  borne  on  scaly  wings. 

"Shards,  beetle's  wings. 

Shards,  broken  pots  or  tiles. 

Shark  up.  to  pick  up. 

Shaven  Hercules,  Samson. 

Sheen,  shining,  gay. 

Sneer,  transparent. 

Shent,  to  scold,  rebuke. 

Sherris,  sherry. 

Shive,  a  slice. 

Shog,  to  go  off. 

Shotten,  projected.  [spawned. 

Shelter  -herring,  a  herring  that  has 


Shoulder-clapper,  a  bailiff. 

Shoiighs,  shocks,  a  species  o(  dog 

Shove-groat,  a  game. 

Shovel-boards,  shillings  used  at  the 
game  of  shovel-board. 

Shrewd,  shrewish. 

Shrift,  auricular  confession. 

Shrive,  to  call  to  confession. 

Side,  purpose. 

Side-sleeves,  long  sleeves. 

Siege,  a  stool. 

Sieve,  a  common  voider. 

Sightless,  unsightly. 

Sights,  the  perforated  parts  of  a 
helmet. 

Silly,  simple  truth. 

Sinew,  strength. 

Single,  weak. 

Sink-a-pace,  cinque  pace,  a  dance. 

Sir,  the  title  of  a  parson. 

Sister,  to  imitate  or  re-echo. 

Sith,  since. 

Sithence,  thence. 

Sizes,  allowances  of  victuals. 

Skain's-mates,  kin's-mates. 

Skill,  reason. 

Skills  not;  is  of  no  importance. 

Skinker,  a  tapster. 

Skirr,  to  scour. 

Slave,  to  treat  with  indignity. 

Sleave,  the  knotty  part  of  silk. 

Sledded,  carried  on  a  sledge. 

Sleided,  untwisted. 

Slights,  tricks. 

Slip,  counterfeit  coin. 

Slips,  a  contrivance  in  leather,  to 
start  two  dogs  at  the  same 
time. 

Sliver,  to  slice. 

Slops,  loose  breeches. 

Slough,  the  skin  which  the  serpent 
annually  throws  off. 

Slower,  more  serious. 

Slubber,  to  do  carelessly,  to  ob- 
scure. 

Sluggabed,  sluggard. 

Smirched,  soiled. 

Sneap,  rebuke. 

Sneaping,  nipping. 

Sneck-up,  go  hang  yourself. 

Snipe,  a  poltroon. 

Snuff,  anger. 

Snuffs,  dislikes. 

Soil,  spot,  turpitude,  reproach. 

Solicit,  courtship. 

Solicit,  to  excite. 

Soliciting,  information. 


GLOSSARY. 


xlv 


Solldares,  a  coin. 

Sometimes,  formerly. 

Sooth,  truth. 

Sooth,  sweetness. 

Sorel,  a  deer  during  his  third  year 

Sorry,  sorrowful. 

Sort,  to  happen  to  agree. 

Sort,  the  lot. 

Sort  and  suit,  figure  and  rank. 

Sot,  a  fool. 

Soud,  sweet. 

Soul-fearing,  soul  appalling, 

Sound,  to  publish. 

Soused  gurnet,  a  gudgeon. 

Sowl,  to  pull  by  the  ears. 

Sowle,  to  drag  down. 

Sowter,  the  nanne  of  a  hound. 

Spanielled,  dogged. 

Specialty,  particular  rights. 

Speculation,  sight. 

Speculative,  seeing. 

Sped,  the  fate  decided. 

Speed,  event. 

Sperr,  to  shut  up,  defend  by  bars. 

Spill,  to  destiioy. 

Spotted,  wicked. 

Sprag.  apt  to  learn,  alert. 

Sprighted,  haunted. 

Sprights,  spirits. 

Sprightly,  ghostly. 

Springhalt,  a  disease  of  horses. 

Spurs,  the  greater  roots  of  trees. 

Square,  to  quarrel. 

Squarer,  a  qnarreller. 

Squash,  an  immature  peascod. 

Squiney,  to  look  asquint. 

Squire,  a  rule  or  square. 

Stage,  to  place  conspicuously. 

Stale,  a  decoy  for  birds. 

Stannyel.  a  hawk,  or  stallion. 

Star,  a  scar. 

Stark,  stiff. 

Starred,  destined. 

Statists,  statesmen. 

Statua,  statue. 

Statue,  a  portrait. 

Stay,  a  hinderer,  a  supporter. 

Sternage,  the  hinder  part. 
Stick ing-place,  the  stop  in  a  ma- 
chine. 
Sticklers,  arbitrators,  judges,  par- 
tisans, umpires. 
Stigmatic,  marked  with  deformity, 

branded. 
Stigmatical,  stigmatised. 
Stilly,  gladly,  lowly. 
Stinted,  stopped. 


Stint,  to  stop. 

Stith.  an  anvil. 

Stilhied,  forged  at  the  fun^aje 

Stithy,  a  smith's  shop. 

Stoccata,  a  stab. 

Stock,  a  stocking. 

Stomach,  pride. 

Stone-bow,  a  cross  bow. 

Stoup,  a  fiaggon. 

Stover,  thatch. 

Strain,  descent,  lineage. 

Strain,  difficulty,  doubt. 

Strait,  narrow,  avaricious. 

Strange,  shy. 

Stratagem,  great  or  dreadful  event 

Strawy,  straying. 

Striker,  a  borrower. 

Stuck  or  Stock,  a  term  m  fencing. 

Stuff,  baggage,  substance,  or  es» 
sence. 

Stuffed,  sufficiency,  ample  abilitiea 

Subscription,  obedience. 

Success,  succession. 

Sudden,  violent. 

Sufficiency,  abilities. 

Suggest,  to  tempt. 

Suggestion,  temptation. 

Suited,  dressed. 

Sumpter,  a  horse  that  carries  ne- 
cessaries on  a  journey. 

Superfluous,  overclothed. 

Supposed,  counterfeit. 

Sur-reined,  over-ridden. 

Suspire,  to  breathe. 

Surcease,  an  end. 

Suspect,  suspicion. 

Swart,  dark  brown. 

Swashing,  bullying. 

Swath,  grass  cut  at  one  stroke. 

Sway,  weight. 

Sweeting,  an  apple. 

Sweltered,  weltered. 

Swift,  ready. 

Swinge-bucklers,  riotous  fellows. 

Swoop,  the  descent  of  a  bird  of 
prey. 

Svvounded,  swooned. 

T. 

Table,  the  palm  of  the  hand. 

Table,  a  picture. 

Tables,      tablets,      memorandum 

books. 
Tabourine,  a  small  drum. 
Tag,  the  rabble. 
Take,   to  strike  with  disease,   to 

blast. 


xlvi 


GLOSSARY. 


Take-in.  tr  conquer. 

Fake-up,  t3  conliadict. 

faleiit,  talon. 

Tall.  couia<ieous. 

Tallow-keech,  tub  of  tallow. 

Tame,  inetiVciuai. 

Tame-siiake,  a  poltroon. 

Tarre,  to  excite,  provoke. 

Tartar,  Tiirlarus. 

Task,  to  keep  busied  with  scruples. 

Tassel  Genile,  or  Tercel  Gentle,  a 
species  of  hawk. 

Tasked,  taxed.  [astrology. 

Taurus,  sides  and  heart  in  medical 

Tawdry,  necklaces  worn  by  coun- 
try girls,  [ritor. 

Tawny  coat,  the  dress  of  an  appa- 

Taxation,  censure,  satire. 

Tear  a  cat,  to  bluster. 

Teen,  grief,  trouble. 

Temper,  to  mould. 

Temperance,  temperature. 

Tend,  attend. 

Tender,  to  regard  with  affection. 

Tent,  to  take  up  residence, tosearch. 

Tercel,  the  male  hawk. 

Terms,  the  phraseology  of  courts. 

Tested,  attested,  brought  to  the  test. 

Testerned,  gratified  with  a  tester, 
or  sixpence. 

Tetchy,  touchy,  peevish. 

Tether,  a  string  by  which  any  ani- 
mal is  fastened. 

Tharborough,  a  constable. 

Theorick,  theory. 

Thewes,  mnsculwr  strength. 

Thick,  pleached,  thickly  inter- 
Thill,  the  shafts  of  a  cart,   [woven. 

Thin  Helm,  ihin  covering  of  hair. 

Thought,  melancholy. 

Thrasonical,  boasting. 

Thread,  to  pass. 

Three-man-beetle,  an  implement 
for  drivniaf  pdes. 

Three-pile,  rich  velvet. 

Thrift,  prosperity,  economy. 

Thrum,  the  extremity  of  a  weaver's 
warp.  [len. 

Thrummed,  mar'e  of  coarse  wool- 
Tib,  a  strumpet 

Tickle,  ticklifh 

Tickle-brain,  a  strong  drink. 

Tilly-vally,  pooh  1 

Tilth,  tillage. 

Timeless,  untimely. 

Tinct,  tincture 

Tire,  head-dress. 


Tire,  to  fasten. 

Tire,  to  be  idly  employed  on. 

Tired,  adorned. 

Tire-valiant,  a  head-dress. 

Tirra-lirra,  the  song  of  the  lark. 

Toged,  habited. 

Tokened,  spotted. 

Tolling,  taking  toll. 

Topless,  supreme. 

Topple,  to  stumble. 

Touches,  features. 

Toward,  in  readiness. 

Toys,  whims,  humors. 

Toze,  to  unravel. 

Trade,  established  custom. 

Tradition,  traditional  usages. 

Trail,  scent  left  by  game. 

Traitress,  a  term  of  endearment. 

Trammel,  to  catch. 

Tranect,  a  feiry  or  sluice. 

Translate,  to  transform. 

Trash,  to  check. 

Traverse,  to  march. 

Traversed,  across. 

Tray-trip,  a  game  at  draughts. 

Treachers,  traitors. 

Trenched,  carved. 

Trick,  peculiarity  of  feature. 

Trick,  to  press  out. 

Tricking,  diess. 

Tricksy,  adroit. 

Trigon,  Aries,  Leo,  and  Sagittarius^ 

Trip,  to  defeat.        [in  the  Zodiac. 

Triple,  one  of  three. 

Triumphs,  revels. 

Trojan,  cant  term  for  thief. 

Trol-my-dames,  the  game  of  nine 

Troll,  to  sing  trippingly.        [holes. 

Trossers,  trousers. 

Trot,  a  term  of  contempt. 

Trow,  to  imagine. 

Truly-good,  or  turlupin.  a  gipsy. 

Trundle-tail,  a  dog. 

Trusted,  thrusted. 

Try  conclusions,  try  experiments. 

Tub-fast,  the  sweating  process  in 

the  venereal  disease. 
Tucket,    or   tucket    sonnuance,   a 

flourish  on  a  trumpet. 
Tup,  a  ram. 
Tup,  to  cover  an  ewe. 
Turre,  to  whisper. 
Turlygood,  or  Turlupin,  a  gipsy. 
Twangling-jack,  a  scurvy  musician. 
Twicken-bottle,  a  wickered  bottle. 
Twigging,  wickered. 
Tything,  a  district. 


GLOSSARY. 


xlvii 


U. 

Umber,  a  dusky-colored  earth. 

Umbered,  discoloured. 

Unaccustomed,  unseemly. 

Unaneled,  without  extreme  unction 

Unavoided.  unavoidable. 

Unbarbed,  beardless,  unshaven. 

Unbated,  not  blunted. 

Unbitted,  unbridled. 

Unbolt,  to  e.xplain. 

Unbolted,  course. 

Unbonneted,  without  dignities. 

Unbookish,  unlearned. 

Unbreathed.  unpractised,  [hunting. 

Uncape,  to  dig  out,  a  term  in  fo.v- 

Uncharged,  unattacked. 

Unclew,  to  unwind. 

Uncoined;  unrefined,  unadorned. 

Unconfirmed,  unpractised  in  world- 

Uncurrent,  irregular.  [ly  craft. 

Undercraft,  to  wear  beneath   the 

Under-sk inker,  a  tapster.       [crest. 

Understand,  stand  under. 

Undertaker,  the  defender  of  an- 
other's quarrel. 

Underwrite,  to  subscribe,  to  obey. 

Uneath,  scarcely. 

Unexpressive,  inexpressible. 

Unfair,  to  deprive  of  beauty. 

Ungenitured,  without  genitals. 

Unhaired,  youthful. 

Unhappy,  unlucky,  mischievous. 

Unhoused,  free  from  domestic  cares 

Unhouselled,  without  having  the 
sacrament. 

Union,  a  species  of  pearl. 

Unkind,  unnatural. 

Unlived,  liieiess. 

Unlustrous,  wiihout  lustre. 

Unmanned,  a  term  in  falconry. 

Unmastered,  licentious. 

Unowed,  unowned. 

Unpreunant,  not  quickened. 

Unjjroper,  rornmon. 

Unqualitied,  unmanned.      [sation. 

Unqueslionable,  averse  to  conver- 

Unready,  undrest. 

Un respective,  inconsiderate. 

Unrest,  disijuiet. 

Uniough,  beaidless. 

Unsistiiiir,  unresisting,  unfeeling. 

Unsmirched,  uiidefiled. 

Unaquaretl,  unadapted. 

Unstanclied.  incontinent. 

Untempering;  not  softening. 

Untented   not  probed,  virulent. 


Untraded,  not  in  common  use. 
Untrimmed,  undrest. 
Upsprins,  a  dance. 
Unvalued,  invaluable 


Vail,  to  bow,  to  sink,  to  condescend 

Vailing,  lowering.  [to  look. 

Vain,  vanity. 

Vain,  lying. 

Valance,  fringed  with  a  beard. 

Vanity,  illusion. 

Vantage,  oppoitunity,  advantage 

Vantbrace,  armor  for  the  arm. 

Varlet,  a  servant. 

Vast,  waste,  dreary. 

Vaunt,  the  avant,  the  fore-part. 

Vaward,  the  fore-part. 

Velure,  velvet. 

Venetian,  admittance. 

Vent,  rumor. 

Ventiges,  holes  of  a  flute. 

Verbal,  verbose. 

Verify,  to  bear  witness 

Venew,  a  bout  (in  fencing). 

Vengeance,  mischief. 

Veneys,  hits. 

Veronese,  a  ship  from  Verona. 

Versing,  writing  verses. 

Very,  immediate. 

Via,  a  cant  phrase  of  exultation. 

Vice,  the  fool  of  the  old  moralities 

Vice,  grasp. 

Vie,  to  brag. 

Viewless,  invisible.  [vant. 

Villain,  a  worthless  fellow,  a  ser- 

Vild,  vile. 

Violenteth,  rageth. 

Virginal,  a  kind  of  spinnet. 

Virtue,  valor. 

Virtuous,  healthy. 

Virtuous,  weli-bred. 

Vixen,  or  Fixen,  a  female  to\. 

Vizament,  advisement. 

Vox,  tone  or  voice. 

Vulgar,  common. 

Vulgarly,  commonly. 

W. 

Waft,  to  beckon. 
Wage,  to  combat. 
Wages,  is  equal  to. 
Waist,  that  part  of  a  ship  between 
the  quarter-deck  and  the  fore- 
Waist,  the  middle.  [castle. 
Walk,  a  district  in  a  forest. 
Wanned,  pale. 


xlviii 


GLOSSARY. 


VVannion,  vensjeance. 

Ward,  posture  of  defence. 

Want,  guardianship. 

Warden,  a  pear. 

Warn,  summon.  [tivals. 

VVassel  candle,  candle  used  at  fes- 

Wassels.  rustic  revelry. 

Watch,  a  watch-light. 

Water-work,  water-colors. 

\Vax,  to  grow. 

Waxen,  increase. 

Waxen,  soft,  yielding. 

Wanton,  a  feeble  or  effeminate  man 

Wappened,  decayed,  diseased. 

Warder,  a  sentinel. 

Warp,  to  change  from  the  natural 

state. 
Wee,  very  little. 
Weeds,  clothing. 
Ween,  to  imagine. 
Weigh,  to  value  or  esteem. 
Weird,  prophetic. 
Welkin,  the  sky. 
Welkin-eye,  blue  eye. 
Well-a-near,  lack-a-day ! 
Well-liking,  plump. 
Wend,  to  go. 
Westw^ard  hoe,  the  name  of  a  play 

acted  in  Shakspeare's  time. 
Wether,  used  for  a  ram. 
Wear,  the  fashion.  [ces. 

Whelked,  varied  with  protuberan- 
Whe'r,  whether. 
Where,  whereas. 

Whiffler,  an  officer  in  processions. 
Whiles,  until.  , 

Whinidst,  mouldy. 
Whip,  the  crack,  the  best. 
Whipstock,  the  carter's  whip. 
Whirring,  hurrying. 
Whist,  being  silent. 
White,  the  white  mark  in  the  target. 
White-death,  the  green  sickness. 
Whiting-time,  bleaching  time. 
Whitsters,  linen  bleachers. 
Whittle,  a  pocket-knife. 
Whooping,  meas\ire  and  reckoning. 
Wide,  remote  from. 
Wilderness,  wildness. 
Will,  wilfulness. 
Wimple,  a  hood  or  veil 
Winchester  Goose,  a  strumpet. 
Winking-gates,gates  hastily  closed 

from  fear  of  danger. 


Winnowed,  examined.  [winter. 
Winter-ground,  to  protect  against 
Wis,  to  know.  [teller. 

Wise  woman,  a  witch,  a  fortune- 
Wish,  to  recomme-nd. 
Wit,  to  know. 
Witch,  to  bewitch. 
Withy,  judicious,  cunning. 
Wits,  senses. 

Wittol,  knowing,  conscious  of. 
VVittol;  a  contented  cuckold. 
Woe,  to  be  sorry. 
Woman,  to  affect  deeply. 
Woman-tired,  henpecked. 
Wonilered,  able  to  perform  wonders 
Wood,  crazy,  frantic. 
Wooden  thing,  awkward  business. 
World  to  see,  wonderful,  [forester. 
Woodman,    an   attendant    on   the 
Woolward,  wearing  wool. 
Work,  fortification. 
Workings,  thoughts. 
Worm,  a  serpent. 
Worth,  wealth. 
Worship,  dignity. 
Wreak,  to  revenge ;  resentment. 
Wrest,  an    instrument  for   tuning 

the  harp. 
Wrested,  obtained  by  force. 
Wretch,  a  term  of  fondness. 
Writ,  writing. 

Write,  to  pronounce  confidently. 
Writhled,  wrinkled. 
Wry,  to  deviate. 
Wrong,  hurt. 
Wroth,  misfortune. 
Wrought,  agitated. 
Wrung,  pressed,  strained. 


Yare,  nimble,  handy. 
Yarely,  nimbly,  adroitly. 
Yearn,  to  grieve  or  vex. 
Yeild,  to  inform  of. 
Yellowness,  jealousy. 
Yeoman,  a  bailiff's  follower. 
Yerk,  to  kick. 
Yesty,  foaming,  frothy. 
Young,  early. 


Z. 

Zany,  a  buffoon. 

Zealous,  pious. 

Zed,  a  term  of  contempt. 


THE  TEMPEST. 


Vol.  1,-2  27 


[•  Lords. 


PERSONS   REPRESENTED. 

Alonzo,  King  of  Naples. 

Sebastian,  his  Brother. 

Prospero,  the  Rightful  Duke  of  Milan. 

Antonio,  his  Brother,  the  usurping  Duke  of  Milan. 

Ferdinand,  Son  to  the  King  of  Naples. 

GoNZALO,  an  honest  old  Counsellor  of  Naples. 

Adria>, 

Francisco, 

Caliban,  a  savage  and  deformed  Slave. 

Trinculo,  a  Jester. 

Stephang,  a  drunken  Butler. 

Master  of  a  Ship.,  Boatswain,  and  Marinere. 

Miranda,  Daughter  to  Prospero. 

Ariel,  an  airy  Spirit. 

Iris, 

Ceres, 

Juno,      )■  Spirits 

Nymphs, 

Reapers,  j 

Other  Spirits  attending  on  Prospero. 

SCENE.    The   Sea,  with  a   Ship ;   afterwards   an  uninhabitated 

Island. 


(18) 


THE  TEMPEST. 


ACT   I. 

SCENE  l.—On  a  Ship  at  Sea. 

A  Storm,  loith  Thunder  and  Lightning. 

Enter  a  Ship-master  and  a  Boatswain. 

Master.   Boatswain, — 
Boats.    Here,  master :  what  cheer  ? 
Mast.    Good : . speak  to  the  mariners :  fall  to't  yarely,  or 
we  run  ourselves  aground ;  bestir,  bestir.  \lExit. 

Enter  Mariners. 

Boats.  Heigh,  my  hearts  ;  cheerly,  cheerly,  my  hearts  : 
yare,  yare :  Take  in  the  top-sail ;  Tend  to  the  master's 
whistle. — Blow  till  thou  burst  thy  wind,  if  room  enough ! 

Enter  Alonzo,  Sebastian,  Antonio,  Ferdinand,  Gonzalo, 
and  others. 

Alon.  Good  Boatswain,  have  care.  Where's  the  master? 
Play  the  men. 

Boats.    I  pray  now,  keep  below. 

Ant.    Where  is  the  master,  boatswain? 

Boats.  Do  you  not  hear  him  ?  You  mar  our  labor  !  keep 
your  cabins :  you  do  assist  the  storm. 

Gon.    Nay,  good,  be  patient. 

Boats.  When  the  sea  is.  Hence !  What  care  these 
roarers  for  the  name  of  king  ?  To  cabin  ;  silence  :  trouble 
us  not. 

Gron.    Good  ;  yet  remember  whom  thou  hast  aboard. 

Boats.  None  that  I  more  love  than  myself.  You  are  a 
counsellor ;  if  you  can  command  these  elements  to  silence, 
and  work  the  peace  of  the  present,  we  will  not  hand  a  rope 
more  ;  use  your  authority.    If  you  cannot,  give  thanks  you 


20  THE    TEMPEST.  [Act  1 

have  lived  so  long,  and  make  yourself  ready  in  your  cabin 
for  the  mischance  of  the  hour,  if  it  so  hap. — Cheerly,  good 
hearts. — Out  of  our  way,  I  say.  \^JExit. 

G-on.  I  have  great  comfort  from  this  fellow :  methinks 
he  hath  no  drowning  mark  upon  him ;  his  complexion  is 
perfect  gallows.  Stand  fast,  good  fate,  to  his  hanging ! 
make  the  rope  of  his  destiny  our  cable,  for  our  own  doth 
little  advantage  !  if  he  be  not  born  to  be  hanged,  our  case 
is  miserable.  \_Exeunt. 

Re-enter  Boatswain. 

Boats.  Down  with  the  top-mast ;  yare ;  lower,  lower ; 
bring  her  to  try  with  main  course.  \^A  cry  ivithin.~\  A 
plague  upon  this  howling  !  they  are  louder  than  the  weather, 
or  our  office. — 

Re-enter  Sebastian,  Antonio,  and  Gonzalo. 

Yet  again !  what  do  you  here  ?  Shall  we  give  o'er,  and 
drown  ?     Have  you  a  mind  to  sink  ? 

Seh.  A  pox  o'  your  throat !  you  bawling,  blasphemous, 
uncharitable  dog ! 

Boats.    Work  you,  then. 

Ant.  Hang,  cur,  hang !  you  whoreson,  insolent  noise- 
maker,  we  are  less  afraid  to  be  drowned  than  thou  art. 

Cron.  I'll  warrant  him  from  drowning ;  though  the  ship 
were  no  stronger  than  a  nut-shell,  and  as  leaky  as  an  un- 
stanched  wench. 

Boats.  Lay  her  a-hold,  a-hold ;  set  her  two  courses ;  oflF 
to  sea  again,  lay  her  off. 

Enter  Mariners,  wet. 

Mar.   All  lost !  to  prayers,  to  prayers  !  all  lost ! 

[ExeunU 
Boats.    What,  must  our  mouths  be  cold  ? 
Cion.    The    king    and   prince    at  prayers !    let  us    assist 
them. 
For  our  case  is  as  theirs. 
Seh.    I  am  out  of  patience. 

Ant.    We   are   merely  cheated  of  our  lives   by  drunk- 
ards.— 
This   wide-chapped    rascal ;  —  'Would,    thou    might'st   lie 

drowning. 
The  washing  of  ten  tides ! 

G-on.  He'll  be  hanged  yet ; 

Though  every  drop  of  water  swear  against  it, 
And  gape  at  wid'st  to  glut  him. 


Act.  L]  the    tempest.  21 

l_A  confuse  i  noise  within.']  Mercy  on  us  ! — We  split,  we 
split ! — Farewell,  mj  wife  and  children  ! — Farewell,  bro- 
ther ! — We  split,  we  split,  we  split. 

Ant.    Let's  all  sink  with  the  king.  \^Exit. 

Seh.    Let's  take  leave  of  him.  \^Exit. 

Cron.  Now  would  I  give  a  thousand  furlongs  of  sea  for 
an  acre  of  barren  ground ;  long  heath,  brown  furze,  any 
thing  :  The  wills  above  be  done  !  but  I  would  fain  die  a  dry 
death.  \^ExiU 

SCENE  II.— The  Island:  before  the  Cell  of  Prospero. 
Enter  Prospero  and  Miranda. 

Mira.    If  by  your  art,  my  dearest  father,  you  have 
Put  the  wild  waters  in  this  roar,  allay  them  : 
The  sky,  it  seems,  would  pour  down   stinking  pitch, 
But  that  the  sea,  mounting  to  the  welkin's  cheek, 
Dashes  the  fire  out.     0,  I  have   suffered 
With  those  that  I  saw  suffer !  a  brave  vessel. 
Who  had  no  doubt  some  noble  creatures  in  her, 
Dashed  all  to  pieces.     0,  the  cry  did  knock 
Against  my  very  heart !     Poor  souls !  they  perished. 
Had  I  been  any  god  of  power,  I  would 
Have  sunk  the  sea  within  the  earth,  or  e'er 
It  should  the  good  ship  so  have  swallowed,  and 
The  freighting  souls  within  her. 

Pro.  Be  collected: 

No  more  amazement :  tell  your  piteous  heart, 
There's  no  harm  done. 

Mira.  0,  wo  the  day ! 

Pro.  No  harm. 

I  have  done  nothing  but  in  care  of  thee, 
(Of  thee,  my  dear  one !  thee,  my  daughter !)  who 
Art  ignorant  of  what  thou  art,  nought  knowing 
Of  whence  I  am ;  nor  that  I  am  more  better 
Than  Prospero,  master  of  a  full  poor  cell, 
And  thy  no  greater  father. 

3Iira.  More  to  know 

Did  never  meddle  with  my  thoughts. 

Pro.  'Tis  time 

I  should  inform  thee  further.     Lend  thy  hand. 
And  pluck  my  magic  garment  from  me. — So : 

\_Lays  doum  his  mantle. 
Lie  there,  my  art. — Wipe  thou  thine  eyes ;  have  comfort. 
The  direful  spectacle  of  the  wreck,  which  touched 
The  very  virtue  of  compassion  in  thee, 


22  THE    TEMPEST.  [Act  I 

I  have  with  such  provivsion  in  mine  art 

So  safely  ordered,  that  there  is  no  soul — 

No,  not  so  much  perdition  as  an  hair, 

Betid  to  anj  creature  in  the  vessel 

Which    thou   heard'st   cry,  which    thou    saw'st    sink.     Sit 

down ; 
For  thou  must  now  know  further. 

31ira.  You  have  often 

Begun  to  tell  me  what  I  am  ;  hut  stopped 
And  loft  me  to  a  bootless  inquisition ; 
Concluding,  Stay,  not  yet. — 

Pro.  The  hour's  now  come; 

The  very  minute  bids  thee  ope  thine  ear ; 
Obey,  and  be  attentiv'e.     Can'st  thou  remember 
A  time  before  we  came  into  this  cell  ? 
I  do  not  think  thou  can'st ;  for  then  thou  wast  not 
Out  three  years  old. 

3Iira.  Certainly,  sir,  I  can. 

Pro.    By  what?  by  any  other  house,  or  person? 
Of  any  thing  the  image  tell  me,  that 
Hath  kept  with  thy  remembrance. 

Mir  a.  'Tis  far  off; 

And  rather  like  a  dream  than  an  assurance 
That  my  remembrance  warrants :     Had  I  not 
Four  or  five  women  once,  that  tended  me  ? 

Pro.  Thou  had'st,  and  more,  Miranda :  But  how  is  it, 
That  this  lives  in  thy  mind  ?     What  seest  thou  else 
In  the  dark  backward  and  abysm  of  time  ? 
If  thou  remember'st  aught,  ere  thou  cam'st  here, 
How  cam'st  thou  here,  thou  may'st. 

Mira.  But  that  I  do  not. 

Pro.    Twelve  years  since,  Miranda,  twelve  years  since, 
Thy  father  was  the  duke  of  Milan,  and 
A  prince  of  power. 

Mira.  Sir,  are  not  you  my  father? 

Pro.    Thy  mother  was  a  piece  of  virtue,  and 
She  said — thou  wast  my  daughter ;  and  thy  father 
Was  duke  of  Milan;  and  his  only  heir 
A  princess; — no  worse  issued. 

Mira.  0,  the  heavens  ! 

What  foul  play  had  we,  that  we  came  from  thence? 
Or  blessed  was't  we  did  ? 

Pro.  Both,  both,  my  girl: 

By  foul  play,  as  thou  say'st,  were  we  heaved  thence; 
But  blessedly  holp  hither. 

Mira.  0,  my  heart  bleeds 


AOT  l.J  THE    TEMPEST.  23 

To  think  o'  the  teen  that  I  have  turned  you  to, 
Which  is  from  my  remembrance  !     Please  you,  further. 

Pro.    My  brother,  and  thy  uncle,  called  Antonio — 
I  pray  thee,  mark  me, — that  a  brother  should 
Be  so  perfidious! — he  whom,  next  thyself. 
Of  all  the  world  I  loved,  and  to  him  put 
The  manage  of  my  state ;  as,  at  that  time, 
Through  all  the  signiories  it  was  the  first. 
And  Prospero  the  prime  duke ;  being  so  reputed 
In  dignity,  and,  for  the  liberal  arts, 
Without  a  parallel ;  those  being  all  my  study, 
The  government  I  cast  upon  my  brother, 
And  to  my  state  grew  stranger,  being  transported, 
And  rapt  in  secret  studies.     Thy  false  uncle — 
Dost  thou  attend  me  ? 

Mira.  Sir,  most  heedfully. 

Pro.    Being  once  perfected  how  to  grant  suits, 
How  to  deny  them ;  whom  to  advance,  and  whom 
To  trash  for  overtopping ;  new  created 
The  creatures  that  were  mine ;  I  say,  or  changed  them, 
Or  else  new  formed  them  ;  having  both  the  key 
Of  officer  and  office,  set  all  heai'ts  i'  th'  state 
To  what  tune  pleased  his  ear ;  that  now  he  was 
The  ivy,  which  had  hid  my  princely  trunk. 
And  sucked  my  verdure  out  on't. — Thou  attend'st  not. 

Mira.    0  good  sir,  I  do. 

Pro.  I  pray  thee  mark  me. 

I  thus  neglecting  worldly  ends,  all  dedicate 
To  closeness,  and  the  bettering  of  my  mind 
With  that,  which,  but  by  being  so  retired, 
O'er-prized  all  popular  rate,  in  my  false  brother 
Awaked  an  evil  nature ;  and  my  trust, 
Like  a  good  parent,  did  beget  of  him 
A  falsehood,  in  its  contrary  as  great 
As  my  trust  was ;   which  had,  indeed,  no  limit, 
A  confidence  sans  bound.     He  being  thus  lorded, 
Not  only  with  what  my  revenue  yielded. 
But  what  my  power  might  else  exact, — like  one, 
Who  having,  unto  truth,  by  telling  of  it. 
Made  such  a  sinner  of  his  memory. 
To  credit  his  OAvn  lie, — he  did  believe 
fl«.'  was  indeed  the  duke ;  out  of  the  substitution, 
And  executing  the  outward  face  of  royalty, 
With  all  prerogative : — Hence  his  ambition 
Growing, — Dost  hear? 

Mira.    Your  tale,  sir,  would  cure  deafness. 


24  THE    TEMPEST.  [Act  I 

Pro.  To  have  no  screen  between  this  part  he  play'd 
And  him  he  phay'd  it  for,  he  needs  will  be 
Absolute  Milan :  Me,  poor  man ! — my  library 
Was  dukedom  large  enough :  of  temporal  royalties 
He  thinks  me  now  incapable :  confederates 
(So  dry  he  was  for  sway)  with  the  king  of  Naples, 
To  give  him  annual  tribute,  do  him  homage ; 
Subject  his  coronet  to  his  crown,  and  bend 
The  dukedom,  yet  unbow'd,  (alas,  poor  Milan !) 
To  most  ignoble  stooping. 

3Iira.  0  the  heavens! 

Pro.  Mark  his  condition,  and  the  event ;  then  tell  me, 
If  this  might  be  a  brother. 

Mira.  I  should  sin 

To  think  but  nobly  of  my  grandmother : 
Good  wombs  have  borne  bad  sons. 

Pro.  Now  the  condition. 

This  king  of  Naples,  being  an  enemy 
To  me  inveterate,  heai'kens  my  brother's  suit; 
Which  was,  that  he,  in  lieu  o'  the  premises, — 
Of  homage,  and  I  know  not  how  much  tribute,— 
Should  presently  extirpate  me  and  mine 
Out  of  the  dukedom ;  and  confer  fair  Milan, 
With  all  the  honours,  on  my  brother :  Whereon, 
A  treacherous  army  levied,  one  midnight 
Fated  to  the  purpose,  did  Antonio  open 
The  gates  of  Milan ;  and,  i'  the  dead  of  darkness, 
The  ministers  for  the  purpose  hurried  thence 
Me,  and  thy  crying  self. 

Mira.  Alack,  for  pity  ! 

I,  not  rememb'ring  how  I  cry'd  out  then, 
Will  cry  it  o'er  again :  it  is  a  hint, 
That  wrings  mine  eyes. 

Pro.  Hear  a  little  further, 

And  then  I  '11  bring  thee  to  the  present  business 
Which  now 's  upon  us ;  without  the  which,  this  story 
Were  most  impertinent. 

Mira.  Wherefore  did  they  not 

That  hour  destroy  us? 

Pro.  Well  demanded,  wench ; 

My  tale  provokes  that  question.     Dear,  they  durst  not; 
(So  dear  the  love  my  people  bore  me)  nor  set 
A  mark  so  bloody  on  the  business ;  but 
With  colours  fairer  painted  their  foul  ends. 
In  few,  they  hurried  us  aboard  a  bark ; 
Bore  us  some  leagues  to  sea;  where  they  prepared 


Act  I.]  THE    TEMPEST.  25 

A  rotten  carcass  of  a  boat,  not  rigged, 
Kor  tackle,  sail,  nor  mast ;  the  very  rats 
Instinctively  had  quit  it ;  there  they  hoist  us, 
To  cry  to  the  sea  that  roared  to  us ;  to  sigh 
To  the  winds,  whose  pity,  sighing  back  again, 
Did  us  but  loving  wrong. 

Mira.  Alack  !  what  trouble 

Was  I  then  to  you ! 

Pro.  0  !  a  cherubim 

Thou  wast,  that  did  preserve  me  !     Thou  didst  smile, 
Infused  with  a  fortitude  from  heaven. 
When  I  have  decked  the  sea  with  drops  full  salt ; 
Under  my  burden  groaned ;  which  raised  in  me 
An  undergoing   stomach,  to  bear  up 
Against  what  should  ensue. 

Mira.  How  came  we  ashore? 

Pro.    By  Providence  divine. 
Some  food  we  had,  and  some  fresh  water,  that 
A  noble  Neapolitan,   Gonzalo, 
Out  of  his  charity,  (who  being  then  appointed 
Master  of  this  design,)  did  give  us ;  with 
Rich  garments,  linens,  stuffs,  and  necessaries, 
Which  since  have  steaded  much ;  so,  of  his  gentleness, 
Knowing  I  loved  my  books,  he  furnished  me, 
From  my  own  library,  with  volumes  that 
I  prize  above  my  dukedom. 

3Iira.  'Would  I  might 

But  ever  see  that  man ! 

Pro.  Now  I  arise: — 

Sit  still,  and  hear  the  last  of  our  sea-sorrow. 
Here  in  this  island  we  arrived ;  and  here 
Have  I,  thy  school-master,  made  thee  more  profit 
Than  other  princes  can,  that  have  more  time 
For  vainer  hours,  and  tutors  not  so  careful. 

Mira.    Heavens    thank   you   for't !     And   now,   I  pray 
you,  sir,  _ 
(For  still  'tis  beating  in  my  mind,)  your  reason 
For  raising  this  sea-storm  ? 

Pro.  Know  thus  far  forth. — 

By  accident  most  strange,  bountiful  fortune, 
Now  my  dear  lady,  hath  mine  enemies 
Brought  to  this  shore :  and  by  my  prescience 
I  find  my  zenith  doth  depend  upon 
A  most  auspicious  star ;  whose  influence 
If  now  I  court  not,  but  omit,  my  fortunes 
Will  ever  after  droop. — Here  cease  more  questions; 

1 


26  THE    TEMPEST.  [Act  1 

Thou  art  inclined  to  sleep ;  'tis  a  good  dulness, 
And  give  it  way ; — I  know  tliou  canst  not  choose. — 

[Miranda  sleeps. 
Come  away,  servant,  come :  I  am  ready  now ; 
Approach,  my  Ariel ;  come. 

IJnter  Ariel. 

Ai'i.    All  hail,  great  master !  grave  sir,  hail !  I  come 
To  answer  thy  best  pleasure ;  be't  to  fly, 
To  swim,  to  dive  into  the  fire,  to  ride 
On  the  curled  clouds :  to  thy  strong  bidding,  task 
Ariel,  and  all  his  quality. 

Pro.  Hast  thou,  spirit. 

Performed  to  point,  the  tempest  that  I  bade  thee  ? 

A7'i.    To  every  article. 
I  boarded  the  king's  ship ;   now  on  the  beak, 
Now  in  the  waist,  the  deck,  in  every  cabin, 
I  flamed  amazement :   Sometimes,  I'd  divide. 
And  burn  in  many  places ;  on  the  top-mast. 
The  yards,  and  bowsprit,  would  I  flame  distinctly, 
Then  meet,  and  join :  Jove's  lightnings,  the  precursors 
0'  the  dreadful  thunder-claps,  more  momentary 
And  sight  out-running  were  not ;    The  fire,  and  cracks 
Of  sulphurous  roaring,  the  most  mighty  Neptune 
Seemed  to  besiege,  and  make  his  bold  waves  tremble, 
Yea,  his  dread  trident  shake. 

Pro.  My  brave  spirit ! 

Who  was   so  firm,  so  constant,  that  his  coil 
Would  not  infect  his  reason  ? 

Art.  Not  a  soul 

But  felt  a  fever  of  the  mad,  and  played 
Some  tricks  of  desperation :  All,  but  mariners, 
Plunged  in  the  foaming  brine,  and  quit  the  vessel, 
Then  all  a-fire  with  me :  the  king's  son,  Ferdinand, 
With  hair  up-starting,  (then  like  reeds,  not  hair,) 
Was  the  first  man  that  leaped ;  cried,  Hell  is  empty ^ 
A7id  all  the  devils  are  here. 

Pro.  Why,  that's  my  spirit ! 

But  was  not  this  nigh  shore  ? 

Ari.  Close  by,  my  master. 

Pro.    But  are  they,  Ariel,  safe  ? 

A  ri.  Not  a  hair  perished  ; 

On  their  sustaining  garments  not  a  blemish. 
But  fresher  than  before :  and  as  thou  bad'st  me, 
In  troops  I  have  dispersed  them  'bout  the  isle : 
The  king's  son  have  I  landed  by  himself; 


Act  I]  THE    TEMPEST.  27 

Whom  I  left  cooling  of  the  air  with  sighs, 
In  an  odd  angle  of  the  isle,   and  sitting, 
Ilis  arms  in  this  sad  knot. 

Pro.  Of  the  king's  ship^ 

The  mariners,  say,  how  thou  hast  disposed, 
And  all  the  rest  o'  the  fleet. 

Ari.  Safely  in  harbor 

Is  the  king's  ship ;  in  the  deep  nook,  where  once 
Thou  call'st  me  up   at  midnight  to  fetch  dew 
From  the  still-vexed  Berraoothes,  thei'e  she's  hid ; 
The  mariners  all  under  hatches  stowed ; 
Whom,  with  a  charm  joined  to  their  suffered  labor, 
I  have  left  asleep :  and  for  the  rest  o'  the  fleet, 
Which  I  dispersed,  they  all  have  met  again ; 
And  are  upon  the  Mediterranean  flote, 
Bound  sadly  home  for  Naples ; 
Supposing  that  they  saw  the  king's  ship  wrecked, 
And  his  great  person  perish. 

Pro.  Ariel,  thy  charge 

Exactly  is  performed ;  but  there's  more  work : 
What  is  the  time  o'  the  day  ? 

Ari.  Past  the  mid  season. 

P7'o.    At  least  two  glasses :  the  time  'twixt  six  and  now 
Must  by  us  both  be  spent  most  preciously. 

Ari.  Is  there  more  toil  ?  since  thou  must  give  me  pains, 
Let  me  remember  thee  what  thou  hast  promised. 
Which  is  not  yet  performed  me. 

Pro.  How  now  !  moody  ? 

What  is't  thou  can'st  demand? 

Ari.  My  liberty. 

Pro.    Before  the  time  be  out  ?  no  more. 

Ari.  I  pray  thee 

Remember,  I  have  done  thee  worthy  service ; 
Told  thee  no  lies,  made  no  mistakings,  served 
Without  or  grudge  or  grumblings :  thou  didst  promise 
To  bate  me  a  full  year. 

Pro.  Dost  thou  forget 

From  what  a  torment  I  did  free  thee  ? 

Ari.  No. 

Pro.    Thou  dost ;  and  think'st  it  much,  to  tread  the  ooze 
Of  the  salt  deep; — 

To  run  upon  the  sharp  wind  of  the  north ; 
To  do  me  business  in  the  veins  o'  the  earth. 
When  it  is  baked  with  frost. 

Ari.  I  do  not,  sir. 

Pro.    Thou  liest,  malignant  thing !  llast  thcu  forgot 


28  THE    TEMPEST.  [Act  I 

The  foul  AT  itch,   Sjcorax,  who,  with  age  and  envy, 
Was  grown  into  a  hoop  ?  hast  thou  forgot  her  ? 

Ari.    No,  sir. 

Pro.  Thou  hast :  where  was  she  born  ?  speak ;  tell  me. 

Ari.    Sir,  in  Argier. 

Pro.  0,  was  she  so  ?     I  must, 

Once  in  a  month,  recount  what  thou  hast  been. 
Which  thou  forget'st.     This  damned  witch,   Sycorax, 
For  mischiefs  manifold,  and  sorceries  terrible 
To  enter  human  hearing,  from  Argier, 
Thou  know'st,  was  banished ;  for  one  thing  she  did. 
They  would  not  take  her  life :  Is  not  this  true  ? 

Ari.    Ay,  sir. 

Pro.  This  blue-eyed  hag  was  hither  brought  with  child. 
And  here  was  left  by  the  sailors :  Thou,  my  slave, 
As  thou  report'st  thyself,  was  then  her  servant: 
And,  for  thou  wast  a  spirit  too  delicate 
To  act  her  earthy  and  abhorred  commands. 
Refusing  her  grand  bests,  she  did  confine  thee. 
By  help  of  her  more  potent  ministers, 
And  in  her  most  unmitigable  rage, 
Into  a  cloven  pine ;  within  which  rift 
Imprisoned,  thou  didst  painfully  remain 
A  dozen  years ;  within  which  space  she  died, 
And  left  thee  there ;  where  thou  didst  vent  thy  groans, 
As  fast  as  mill-wheels  strike :  Then  was  this  island, 
(Save  for  the  son  that  she  did  litter  here, 
A  freckled  whelp,  hag-born)  not  honored  with 
A  human  shape. 

Ari.  Yes ;  Caliban  her  son. 

Pro.    Dull  thing,  I  say  so ;  he,  that  Caliban, 
Whom  now  I  keep  in  service.     Thou  best  know'st 
What  torment  I  did  find  thee  in :  thy  groans 
Did  make  wolves  howl,  and  penetrate  the  breasts 
Of  ever  angry  bears :  it  was  a  torment 
To  lay  upon  the  damned,  which  Sycorax 
Could  not  again  undo  ;  it  was  mine  art. 
When  I  arrived,  and  heard  thee,  that  made  gape 
The  pine,  and  let  thee  out. 

Ari.  I  thank  thee,  master. 

Pre.    If  thou  more  murmur 'st,  I  will  rend  an  oak. 
And  peg  thee  in  his  knotty  entrails,  till 
Thou  hast  howled  away  twelve  winters. 

Ari.  Pardon,  master. 

I  will  be  correspondent  to  command, 
And  do  my  sprighting  gently. 


Act  I.]  THE    TEMPEST.  29 

Pro.  Do  so ;  and  after  two  days 

I  will  discharge  thee. 

Ari.  That's  my  noble  master ! 

What  shall  I  do  ?  say  what  ?  what  shall  I  do  ? 

Pro.  Go,  make  thyself  like  a  nymph  o'  the  sea ;  be  subject 
To  no  sight  but  thine  and  mine ;  invisible 
To  every  eyeball  else.     Go,  take  this  shape, 
And  hither  come  in't :  go  hence,  with  diligence. 

\Exit  Aribl. 
Awake,  dear  heart,  awake !  thou  hast  slept  well ; 
Awake ! 

Mira.    The  strangeness  of  your  story  put 
Heaviness  in  me. 

Pro.  Shake  it  off:  Come  on: 

We'll  visit  Caliban,  my  slave,  who  never 
Yields  us  kind  answer. 

Mira.  'Tis  a  villain,  sir, 

I  do  not  love  to  look  on. 

Pro.  But,  as  'tis, 

We  cannot  miss  him :  he  does  make  our  fire 
Fetch  in  our  wood ;  and  serves  in  offices 
That  profit  us.     What  ho  !  slave  !  Caliban  ! 
Thou  earth,  thou !  speak. 

Col.    [  Within.~\     There's  wood  enough  within. 

Pro.   Come  forth,  I  say ;  there's  other  business  for  thee: 
Come  forth,  thou  tortoise !  when  ? 

Re-enter  Ariel,  like  a   Water-Nymph, 

Fine  apparition !  My  quaint  Ariel, 
Hark  in  thine  ear. 

Ari.  My  lord,  it  shall  be  done.        [^Exit. 

Pro.    Thou  poisonous  slave,  got  by  the  devil  himself 
Upon  thy  wicked  dam,  come  forth ! 

Enter  Caliban. 

Col.    As  wicked  dew  as  e'er  my  mother  brushed 
With  raven's  feather  from  unwholesome  fen, 
Drop  on  you  both  !  a  south-west  blow  on  ye, 
And  blister  you  all  o'er ! 

Pro.  For  this,  be  sure,  to-night  thou  shalt  have  cramps, 
Side-stitches  that  shall  pen  thy  breath  up ;  urchins 
Shall,  for  that  vast  of  night  that  they  may  work 
All  exercise  on  thee :  thou  shalt  be  pinched 
As  thick  as  honey-combs,  each  pinch  more  stinging 
Than  bees  that  made  them. 

Cal.  I  must  eat  my  dinner. 


30  THE    TEMPEST.  [Act  L 

This  island's  mine,  by  Sycorax  my  mother, 

Which  thou  tak'st  from  me.     When  thou  earnest  first, 

Thou  strok'dst  me,  and  mad'st  much  of  me;  wouldst  give  me 

Water  with  berries  in't ;  and  teach  me  how 

To  name  the  bigger  light,  and   how  the  less. 

That  burn  by  day  and  night :  and  then  I  loved  thee, 

And  showed  thee  all  the  qualities  o'  the  isle, 

The  fresh  springs,  brine  pits,  barren  place,  and  fertile; 

Cursed  be  I  that  did  so  ! — All  the  charms 

Of  Sycorax,  toads,  beetles,  bats,  light  on  you ! 

For  I  am  all  the  subjects  that  you  have. 

Which  first  was  mine  own  king :  and  here  you  sty  me 

In  this  hard  rock,  whiles  you  do  keep  from  me 

The  rest  of  the  island. 

Pro.  Thou  most  lying  slave, 

Whom  stripes  may  move,  not  kindness!  I  have  used  thee, 
Filth  as  thou  art,  with  human  care ;  and  lodged  thee 
In  mine  own  cell,  till  thou  didst  seek  to  violate 
The.  honor  of  my  child. 

Gal.    0  ho,  0  ho ! — 'would  it  had  been  done ! 
Thou  didst  prevent  me ;  I  had  peopled  else 
This  isle  with  Calibans. 

Pro.  Abhorred  slave. 

Which  any  print  of  goodness  will  not  take. 
Being  capable  of  all  ill !  I  pitied  thee. 
Took  pains  to  make  thee  speak,  taught  thee  each  hour 
One  thing  or  other ;  when  thou  didst  not,  savage, 
KnoAv  thine  own  meaning,  but  wouldst  gabble  like 
A  thing  most  brutish,  I  endowed  thy  purposes 
With  words  that  made  them  known :  But  thy  vile  race, 
Though  thou  didst  leai-n,  had  that  in't  which  good  natures 
Could  not  abide  to  be  with  ;  therefore  wast  thou 
Deservedly  confined  into  this  rock. 
Who  hadst  deserved  more  than  a  prison. 

Gal.    You  taught  me  language ;  and  my  profit  on't 
Is,  I  know  how  to  curse :  The  red  plague  rid  you, 
For  learning  me  your  language  ! 

Pro.  Hag-seed,  hence ! 

Fetch  us  in  fuel ;  and  be  quick,  thou  wert  best. 
To  answer  other  business.     Shrug'st  thou,  malice  ? 
If  thou  neglect'st,  or  dost  unwillingly 
What  I  command,  I'll  rack  thee  with  old  cramps : 
Fill  all  thy  bones  with  aches :  make  thee  roar 
That  beasts  shall  tremble  at  thy  din ! 

Gal.    No,  'pray  thee! — 
I  must  obey :  his  art  is  of  such  power,  \A.9ide. 


Act  L]  THE    TEMPEST.  31 

It  would  control  my  'dam's  god,   Setebos, 
And  make  a  vassal  of  him. 

Pro.  So,  slave,  hence ! 

[Exit  CALrnAH. 

Re-enter  Ariel  invisible^  playing  and  singing. 

Ferdinand  following  him. 

Ariel's  song. 

Come  untc  these  ydloiv  sands, 

And  then  take  hands: 
Curfsied  when  you  have,  and  hissed, 

{The  wild  waves  whist,) 
Foot  it  featly,  here  and  there^ 
And,  sweet  sprites,  the  burden  hear. 

Hark,  hark! 
Bur.    BoAvgh,  wowgh.  [Dispersedly 

The  watch-dogs  bark: 
Bur.    Bowgh,  wowgh.  \JDispersedly 

Hark,  hark !  I  hear 
The  strain  of  strutting  chanticlere 
Cry,   Cock-a-doodle-doo. 

Fer.  Where  should  this  music  be  ?  i'  the  air,  or  the  earth 
It  sounds  no  more ; — and  sure,  it  waits  upon 
Some  god  of  tlie  island.     Sitting  on  a  bank, 
Weeping  again  the  king  my  fiither's  wreck, 
This  music  crept  by  me  upon  the  waters ; 
Allaying  both  thf  Z!"  fury,  and  my  passion, 
With  its  sweet  air :  thence  I  have  followed  it, 
Or  it  hath  drawn  me  rather : — But  'tis  gone. 
No,  it  begins  again. 

Ariel  sings. 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies  ; 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made; 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes: 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell: 

[Burden,  ding-dong. 
Hark!  now  I  hear  them, — ding-dong,  hell. 

Fer.    The  ditty  does  remember  my  drowned  father. — 
This  is  no  mortal  business,  nor  no  sound 
That  the  earth  owes ; — I  hear  it  now  above  me. 


32  THE    TEMPEST  [Act  I 

Pro.    The  fringed  curtains  of  thine  eye  advance. 
And  say,  what  thou  seest  yond'. 

Mira.  What  is't?  a  spirit? 

Lord,  how  it  looks  about !     Believe  me,  sir, 
It  carries  a  brave  form : — But  'tis  a  spirit. 

Pro.  No,  wench  ;  it  eats  and  sleeps,  and  hath  such  sense* 
As  we  have,  such :  This  gallant,  which  thou  seest, 
Was  in  the  wreck ;  and  but  he's  something  stained 
With  grief,  that's  beauty's  canker,  thou  might'st  call  him 
A  goodly  person :  he  hath  lost  his  fellows, 
And  strays  about  to  find  them. 

Mira.  I  might  call  him 

A  thing  divine ;  for  nothing  natural 
I  ever  saw  so  noble. 

Pro.  It  goes  on,  I  see,  \^Aside» 

As  my  soul  prompts  it : — Spirit,  fine  Spirit !  I'll  free  thee 
Within  two  days  for  this. 

Per.  Most  sure,  the  goddess 

On  whom  these  airs  attend ! — Vouchsafe,  my  prayer 
May  know,  if  you  remain  upon  this  island ; 
And  that  you  will  some  good  instruction  give, 
How  I  may  bear  me  here :  My  prime  request, 
Which  I  do  last  pronounce,  is,  0  you  wonder! 
If  you  be  maid,  or  no  ? 

Mira.  No  wonder,  sir; 

But  certainly  a  maid. 

Per.  My  language !  heavens  ! — 

I  am  the  best  of  them  that  speak  this  speech, 
Were  I  but  where  'tis  spoken. 

Pro.  How  !  the  best  ? 

What  wert  thou,  if  the  king  of  Naples  heard  thee? 

Per.    A  single  thing,  as  I  am  now,  that  wonders 
To  hear  thee  speak  of  Naples ;  he  does  hear  me ; 
And,  that  he  does,  I  weep :  myself  am  Naples ; 
Who  with  mine  eyes,  ne'er  since  at  ebb,  beheld 
The  king  my  father  wrecked. 

Mira.  Alack,  for  mercy  ! 

Per.    Yes,  faith,  and  all  his  lords;  the  duke  of  Milan, 
And  his  brave  son,  being  twain. 

Pro.  The  duke  of  Milan, 

And  his  more  braver  daughter,  could  control  thee, 
If  now  'twere  fit  to  do't : — At  the  first  sight         \A»ide, 
They  have  changed  eyes ; — Delicate  Ariel, 
I'll  set  thee  free  for  this  ! — A  word,  good  sir ; 
I  fear,  you  have  done  yourself  some  wrong :  a  word. 

Mira.    Why  speaks  my  father  so  ungently  ?  This 


Act  I]  THE    TEMPEST.  33 

Is  the  third  man  that  e'er  I  saw ;  the  first 
That  e'er  I  sighed  for :  pity  move  my  father 
To  be  inclined  my  way ! 

Fer.  0,  if  a  virgin, 

And  your  affection  not  gone  forth,  I'll  make  you 
The  queen  of  Naples. 

Pro.  Soft,  sir ;  one  word  more. — 

They  are  both  in  cither's  powers :  but  this  swift  business 
I  must  uneasy  make,  lest  too  light  winning  [Aside. 

Make  the  prize  light. — One  word  more ;  I  charge  thee, 
That  thou  attend  me :  thou  dost  here  usurp 
The  name  thou  ow'st  not ;  and  hast  put  thyself 
Upon  this  island,  as  a  spy,  to  win  it 
From  me,  the  lord  on't. 

Fer.  No,  as  I  am  a  man. 

Mira.    There's  nothing  ill  can  dwell  in  such  a  temple ; 
If  the  ill  spirit  have  so  fair  an  house, 
Good  things  will  strive  to  dwell  with't. 

Pro.  Follow  me. — [  To  Ferd 

Speak  not  you  for  him ;  he's  a  traitor. — Come. 
I'll  manacle  thy  neck  and  feet  together; 
Sea-water  shalt  thou  drink,  thy  food  shall  be 
The  fresh-brook  muscles,  withered  roots,  and  husks 
Wherein  the  acorn  cradled :  Follow. 

Fer.  No ; 

I  will  resist  such  entertainment,  till 
Mine  enemy  has  more  power.  [He  draws. 

Mira.  0  dear  father. 

Make  not  too  rash  a  trial  of  him,  for 
He's  gentle,  and  not  fearful. 

Pro.  What,  I  say. 

My  foot  my  tutor ! — Put  thy  sword  up,  traitor ; 
Who  mak'st  a  show,  but  dar'st  not  strike,  thy  conscience 
Is  so  possessed  with  guilt :  come  from  thy  ward ; 
For  I  can  here  disarm  thee  with  this  stick. 
And  make  thy  weapon  drop. 

Mira.  Beseech  you,  father  ! 

Pro.    Hence ;  hang  not  on  my  garments. 

Mira.  Sir,  have  pitj; 

I'll  be  his  surety. 

Pro.  Silence :  one  word  more 

Shall  make  me  chide  thee,  if  not  hate  thee.     What ! 
A.n  advocate  for  an  impostor  ?  hush ! 
Thou  think'st  there  are  no  more  such  shapes  as  he, 
Having  seen  but  him  and  Caliban:  Foolish  wench! 

Vol.  L  — 3 


84  THE    TEMPEST.  [Act  H, 

To  the  most  of  men  this  is  a  Caliban, 
And  they  to  him  are  angels. 

Mir  a.  Mj  affections 

Are  then  most  humble ;  I  have  no  ambition 
To  see  a  goodlier  man. 

Pro.  Come  on;  obey:  [Tb  Ferd, 

Thy  nerves  are  in  their  infancy  again  ; 
And  have  no  vigor  in  them. 

Fer.  So  they  are  : 

My  spirits,  as  in  a  dream,  are  all  bound  up. 
My  father's  loss,  the  weakness  which  I  feel, 
The  wreck  of  all  my  friends,  or  this  man's  threats, 
To  whom  I  am  subdued,  are  but  light  to  me, 
Might  I  but  through  my  prison  once  a  day 
Behold  this  maid :  all  corners  else  o'  the  earth 
Let  liberty  make  use  of;   space  enough 
Have  I  in  such  a  prison. 

Pro.  It  works  : — Come  on. — 

Thou  hast  done  well,  fine  Ariel ! — Follow  me. — 

[To  Ferd.  and  Mira. 
Hark,  what  thou  else  shalt  do  me.  [To  Ariel. 

3Iira.  Be  of  comfort; 

My  father's  of  a  better  nature,  sir. 
Than  he  appears  by  speech  ;  this  is  unwonted, 
Which  now  came  from  him. 

Pro.  Thou  shalt  be  as  free 

As  mountain  winds :  but  then  exactly  do 
All  points  of  my  command. 

Ari.  To  the  syllable. 

Pro.    Come,  follow :  speak  not  for  him.  {^ExeunL 


ACT   11. 

SCENE  I.— Another  Part  of  the  Island. 

Enter  Alonzo,  Sebastian,  Antonio,  Gonzalo,  Adrian, 
Francisco,  and  others. 

Gon.    'Beseech  you,  sir,  be  merry :  you  have  cause 
(So  have  we  all)  of  joy ;   for  our  escape 
Is  much  beyond  our  loss :  our  hint  of  wo 
Is  common ;  every  day,  some  sailor's  wife. 
The  masters  of  some  merchant,  and  the  merchant. 
Have  jusi  our  theme  of  wo :  but  for  the  miracle, 
I  mean  our  preservation,  few  in  millions 


Act  II.J  THE    TEMPEST.  35 

Can  speak  like  us :  then  wisely,  good  sir,  weigh 
Our  sorrow  with  our  comfort. 

Alon.  Pr'ythee,  peace. 

*SV^.    He  r€'ceives  comfort  like  cold  porridge. 

Ant.    The  visitor  will  not  give  him  o'er  so. 

Seb.  Look,  he's  winding  up  the  watch  of  his  wit;  by  ana 
by  it  will  strike. 

G-on.    Sir, 

Seb.    One: Tell. 

Gon.    When  every  gi'ief  is  entertained,  that's  oflfered, 
Comes  to  the  entertainer — 

Seb.  A  dollar. 

(row.  Dolor  comes  to  him,  indeed ;  you  have  spoken  truer 
than  you  purposed. 

Seb.  You  have  taken  it  wiselier  than  I  meant  you  should. 

Cron.    Therefore,  my  lord, — 

A7it.    Fie,  what  a  spendthrift  is  he  of  his  tongue ! 

Alon.    I  pr'ythee,  spare. 

Cron.    AVell,  I  have :  But  yet — 

Seb.    He  will  be  talking. 

Ant.    Which  of  them,  he,  or  Adrian,  for  a  good  wager, 
first  begins  to  crow  ? 

Seb.    The  old  cock. 

Ant.    The  cockerel. 

Seb.    Done :  The  wager  ? 

Ant.    A  laughter. 

Seb.    A  match. 

Adr.    Though  this  island  seem  to  be  desert, — 

Seb.    Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Ant.    So  you've  payed. 

Adr.    Uninhabitable,  and  almost  inaccessible, — 

Seb.    Yet, — 

Adr.   Yet. 

Ant.    He  could  not  miss  it. 

Adr.    It  must  needs  be  of  subtle,  tender,  and  delicate 
temperance. 

Ant.    Temperance  was  a  delicate  wench. 

Seb.    Ay,  and  a  subtle  ;  as  he  most  learnedly  delivered. 

Adr.    The  air  breathes  upon  us  here  most  sweetly. 

Seb.    As  if  it  had  lungs,  and  rotten  ones. 

Ant.   Or,  as  'twere  perfumed  by  a  fen. 

Gon.    Here  is  every  thing  advantageous  to  life. 

Ant.    True  ;  save  means  to  live. 

Seb.    Of  that  there's  none,  or  little. 

Gon.    How  lush  and  lusty  the  grass  looks  !  how  green ! 

Ant.    The  ground,  indeed,  is  tawny. 


36  THE    TEMPEST.  [Act  H 

Seh.    With  an  eye  of  green  in't. 

Ant     He  misses  not  much. 

Seh.  No ;  he  doth  but  mistake  the  truth  totally. 

Cion.  But  the  rarity  of  it  is  (which  is  indeed  almost 
beyond  credit) — 

Seh.    As  many  vouched  rarities  are. 

Cron.  That  our  garments,  being,  as  they  were,  drenched 
in  'the  sea,  hold,  notwithstanding,  their  freshness,  and 
glosses ;  being  rather  new  dyed  than  stained  with  salt  water. 

Ant.  If  but  one  of  his  pockets  could  speak,  would  it  not 
say,  he  lies  ? 

Seh.    Ay,  or  very  falsely  pocket  up  his  report. 

Gon.  Methinks,  our  garments  are  now  as  fresh  as  when 
we  put  them  on  first  in  Afric,  at  the  marriage  of  the  king's 
fair  daughter  Claribel  to  the  king  of  Tunis. 

Seh.  'Twas  a  sweet  marriage,  and  we  prosper  well  in  our 
return. 

Adr.  Tunis  was  never  graced  before  with  such  a  paragon 
to  their  queen. 

Gon.    Not  since  widow  Dido's  time. 

Ant.  "Widow  ?  a  pox  o'  that !  How  came  that  widow  in  ? 
Widow  Dido ! 

Seh.  What  if  he  had  said  Widower  iEneas  too  ?  good 
lord,  how  you  take  it ! 

Adr.  Widow  Dido,  said  you?  you  make  me  study  of  that: 
she  was  of  Carthage,  not  of  Tunis. 

Gon.    This  Tunis,  sir,  was  Carthage. 

Adr.    Carthage  ? 

Gon.    I  assure  you,  Carthage. 

Ant.    His  word  is  more  than  the  miraculous  harp. 

Seh.    He  hath  raised  the  wall,  and  houses  too. 

Ant.    What  impossible  matter  will  he  make  easy  next  ? 

Seh.  I  think  he  will  carry  this  island  home  in  his  pocket, 
and  give  it  his  son  for  an  apple. 

Ant.  And  sowing  the  kernels  of  it  in  the  sea,  bring  forth 
more  islands. 

Gon.    Ay?  ^ 

Ant.  Why,  in  good  time. 

Gon.  Sir,  we  were  talking  that  our  garments  seem  now 
as  fresh  as  when  we  were  at  Tunis  at  the  marriage  of  your 
daughter,  who  is  now  queen. 

Ant.    And  the  rarest  that  e'er  came  there. 

Seh.    'Bate,  I  beseech  you,  widow  Dido. 

Ant.    0,  widow  Dido  ;  ay,  widow  Dido. 

Gon.  Is  not,  sir,  my  doublet  as  fresh  as  the  first  day  1 
wore  it  ?  I  mean,  in  a  sort. 


Act  II.]  THE    TEMPEST.  37 

Ant.    That  sort  was  well  fished  for. 
Gon.    When  I  wore  it  at  your  daughter's  marriage  ? 
Alon.    You  cram  these  words  into  mine  ears,  against; 
The  stomach  of  my  sense :  'Would  I  had  never 
Married  my  daughter  there !  for,  coming  thence. 
My  son  is  lost;  and,  in  my  rate,  she  too. 
Who  is  so  far  from  Italy  removed, 
I  ne'er  again  shall  see  her.     0  thou  mine  heir 
Of  Naples  and  of  Milan,  what  strange  fish 
Hath  made  his  meal  on  thee ! 

Fran.  Sir,  he  may  live; 

I  saw  him  beat  the  surges  under  him, 
And  ride  upon  their  backs ;  he  trod  the  water, 
Whose  enmity  he  flung  aside,  and  breasted 
The  surge  most  swoln  that  met  him :  his  bold  head 
'Bove  the  contentious  waves  he  kept,  and  oared 
Himself  with  his  good  arms  in  lusty  stroke 
To  the  shore,  that  o'er  his  wave-worn  basis  bowed, 
As  stooping  to  relieve  him :  I  not  doubt. 
He  came  alive  to  land. 
Alon.  No,  no,  he's  gone. 

i^eb.    Sir,  you  may  thank  yourself  for  this   great  loss : 
That  would  not  bless  our  Europe  with  your  daughter, 
But  rather  lose  her  to  an  African ; 
Where  she,  at  least,  is  banished  from  your  eye. 
Who  has  cause  to  wet  the  grief  on't. 

Alon.  Pr'ythee,  peace. 

Seb.    You  were  kneeled  to,  and  importuned  otherwise 
By  all  of  us ;  and  the  fair  soul  herself 
Weighed,  between  loathness  and  obedience,  at 
Which  end  o'  the  beam  she'd  bow.     We  have  lost  your  son, 
I  fear,  forever ;  Milan  and  Naples  have 
More  widows  in  them  of  this  business'  making, 
Than  we  bring  men  to  comfort  them:  the  fault's 
Your  own. 

Alon.    So  is  the  dearest  of  the  loss. 

O-on.  My  lord  Sebastian, 

The  truth  you  speak  doth  lack  some  gentleness, 
And  time  to  speak  it  in ;  you  rub  the  sore, 
When  you  should  bring  the  plaster. 

Seb.  Very  well. 

Ant.    And  most  chirurgeonly. 

Gon.    It  is  foul  weather  in  us  all,  good  sir, 
When  you  are  cloudy. 

tSeb.  Foul  weather? 

Ant.  Very  foul. 


88  THE    TEMPEST.  [Act  II 

Gon.    Had  I  a  plantation  of  this  isle,  my  lord, — 

Ant.    He'd  sow  it  with  nettle-seed. 

Seb.  Or  docks,  or  mallows. 

G-on.    And  were  the  king  of  it,  what  would  I  do  ? 

Seh.    'Scape  getting  drunk,  for  want  of  wine. 

Gon.    V  the  commonwealth  I  would  by  contraries 
Execute  all  things :  for  no  kind  of  traffic 
Would  I  admit ;  no  name  of  magistrate ; 
Letters  should  not  be  known ;  riches,  poverty, 
And  use  of  service,  none ;  contract,  succession, 
Bourn,  bound  of  land,  tilth,  vineyard,  none : 
No  use  of  metal,  corn,  or  wine,  or  oil : 
No  occupation ;  all  men  idle,  all ; 
And  women  too ;  but  innocent  and  pure : 
No  sovereignty : — 

Seh.  And  yet  he  would  be  king  on"t. 

Ant.  The  latter  end  of  his  commonwealth  forgets  the 
beginning. 

Gon.    All  things  in  common  nature  should  produce 
Without  sweat  or  endeavor :  treason,  felony, 
Sword,  pike,  knife,  gun,  or  need  of  any  engine. 
Would  I  not  have ;  but  nature  should  bring  forth, 
Of  its  own  kind,  all  foison,  all  abundance, 
To  feed  my  innocent  people. 

Seh.    No  marrying  among  his  subjects  ? 

Ant.    None,  man  ;  all  idle ;  whores,  and  knaves 

Gon.    I  would  with  such  perfection  govern,  sir, 
To  excel  the  golden  age. 

Seb.  'Save  his  majesty  ! 

Ant.    Long  live  Gonzalo ! 

Gon.  And,  do  you  mark  me,  sir — ? 

Alon.    Pr'ythee,  no  more :  thou  dost  talk  nothing  to  me. 

Gon.  I  do  well  believe  your  highness ;  and  did  it  to  min 
ister  occasion  to  these  gentlemen,  who  are  of  such  sensible' 
and  nimble  lungs,  that  they  always  use  to  laugh  at  nothing. 

Ant.    'Twas  you  we  laughed  at. 

Gon.  Who,  in  this  kind  of  merry  fooling,  am  nothing 
to  yon ;  so  you  may  continue,  and  laugh  at  nothing  still. 

Ant.    What  a  blow  was  there  given ! 

Seb.    An  it  had  not  fallen  flat-long. 

Gon.  You  are  gentlemen  of  brave  mettle :  you  wcaid  lift 
the  moon  out  of  her  sphere,  if  she  would  continue  in  it  five 
weeks  without  changing. 

Enter  Ariel,  invisible,  playing  solemn  music, 
Seh.    We  would  so,  and  then  go  bat-fowling- 


Act  ll.J  THE    TEMPEST.  39 

Ant,    Nay,  good  my  lord,  be  not  angry. 

G-on.  No,  I  warrant  you;  I  will  not  adventure  my  dis- 
cretion so  weakly.  Will  you  laugh  me  asleep,  for  1  am  very 
heavy  ? 

Ant.    Go  sleep,  and  hear  us. 

\_All  sleep  but  Alon.  See.  and  Ant. 

Alon.  What,  all  so  soon  asleep  !  I  wish  mine  eyes 
Would,  with  themselves,  shut  up  my  thoughts :  I  find, 
They  are  inclined  to  do  so. 

Seb.  Please  you,  sir, 

Do  not  omit  the  heavy  offer  of  it : 
It  seldom  visits  sorrow;  when  it  doth. 
It  is  a  comforter. 

Ant.  We  two,  my  lord, 

Will  guard  your  person,  while  you  take  your  rest. 
And  watch  your  safety. 

Alon.  Thank  you:  Wondrous  heavy. 

[Aloxzo  sleeps.     Exit  Ariel. 

Seb.    What  a  strange  drowsiness  possesses  them ! 

Ant.    It  is  the  quality  o'  the  climate. 

Seh.^  Why 

Doth  it  not  then  our  eye-lids  sink  ?  I  find  not 
Myself  disposed  to  sleep. 

Ant.  Nor  I ;  my  spirits  are  nimble. 

They  fell  together  all,  as  by  consent ; 
They  dropped,  as  by  a  thunder-stroke.     What  might, 
Worthy  Sebastian  ? — 0,  what  might  ? — No  more ; — 
And  yet,  methinks,  I  see  it  in  thy  face. 
What  thou  should'st  be :  the  occasion  speaks  thee ;  and 
My  strong  imagination  sees  a  crown 
Dropping  upon  thy  head. 

Seb.  What,  art  thou  waking  ? 

Ant.    Do  you  not  hear  me  speak  ? 

Seb.  I  do ;  and,  surely, 

It  is  a  sleepy  language ;  and  thou  speak'st 
Out  of  thy  sleep :  What  is  it  thou  didst  say  ? 
This  is  a  strange  repose,  to  be  asleep 
With  eyes  wide  open ;  standing,  speaking,  moving, 
And  yet  so  fast  asleep. 

Ant.  Noble  Sebastian, 

Thou  Ict'st  thy  fortune  sleep  —  die  rather;  wink'st 
Whiles  thou  art  waking. 

Seb.  Thou  dost  snore  distinctly 

There's  meaning  in  thy  snores. 

Ant.    I  am  more  serious  than  my  custom:  you 


40  THE    TEMPEST.  [Act  II 

Must  be  so  too,  if  heed  me ;  which  to  do, 
IVebles  thee  o'er. 

Seb.  Well ;   I  am  standing  water. 

Ant.    I'll  teach  you  how  to  flow. 

jSeb.  Do  so :  to  ebb, 

Hereditary  sloth  instructs  me. 

Ant.  0, 

If  you  but  knew  how  you  the  purpose  cherish, 
Whiles  thus  you  mock  it !  how,  in  stripping  it, 
You  more  invest  it !     Ebbing  men,  indeed, 
Most  often  do  so  near  the  bottom  run, 
By  their  own  fear,  or  sloth. 

Seb.  Pr'ythee,  say  on: 

The  setting  of  thine  eye,  and  cheek,  proclaim 
A  matter  from  thee ;  and  a  birth,  indeed, 
Which  throes  thee  much  to  yield. 

Aiit.  Thus,  sir : 

Although  this  lord  of  weak  remembrance,  this 
(Who  shall  be  of  as  little  memory, 
When  he  is  earthed,)  hath  here  almost  persuaded 
(For  he's  a  spirit  of  persuasion,  only 
Professes  to  persuade)  the  king,  his   son's  alive; 
'Tis  as  impossible  that  he's  undrowned, 
As  he  that  sleeps  here,  swims. 

Seb.  I  have  no  hope 

That  he's  undrowned. 

Ant.  0,  out  of  that  no  hope 

What  great  hope  have  you !  no  hope,  that  way,  is 
Another  way  so  high  in  hope,  that  exen 
Ambition  cannot  pierce  a  wink  beyond, 
But  doubts  discovery  there.     Will  you  grant,  with  me» 
That  Ferdinand  is  drowned  ? 

jSeb.  He's  gone. 

Ant.  Then  tell  me, 

Who's  the  next  heir  of  Naples  ? 

Seb.  Claribel. 

Ant.    She  that  is  queen  of  Tunis ;  she  that  dwells 
Ten  leagues  beyond  man's  life ;  she  that  from  Naples 
Can  have  no  note,  unless  the   sun  were  post, 
(The  man  i'  the  moon's  too  slow,)  till  new-born  chins 
Be  rough  and  razorable :  she,  from  whom 
We  all  were  sea-swallowed,  though  some  cast  again; 
And,  by  that  destiny,  to  perform  an  act, 
Whereof  what's  past  is  prologue ;  what  to  come, 
In  yours  and  my  discharge. 

Seb.  What  stufi  is  this? — How  ^ay  youl 


Act  ILl  THE    TEMPEST.  41 

'Tis  true,  my  brother's  daughter's  queen  of  Tunis ; 
So  is  she  heir  of  Naples ;  'twixt  which  regions 
There  is  some  space. 

Ant.  A  space  whose  every  cubit 

Seems  to  cry  out,  Mow  shall  that   Olaribel 
Measure  us  hack  to  Naples? — Keep  in  Tunis, 
And  let  Sebastian  wake ! — Say,  this  were  death 
That  now  hath  seized  them ;  why  they  were  no  worse 
Than  now  they  are :  There  be,  that  can  rule  Naples, 
As  well  as  he  that  sleeps ;  lords,  that  can  prate 
As  amply,  and  unnecessarily, 
As  this  Gonzalo ;  I  myself  could  make 
A  chough  of  as  deep  chat.     0,  that  you  bore 
The  mind  that  I  do !  what  a  sleep  were  this 
For  your  advancement !     Do  you  understand  me  ? 

Seb.   Methinks,  I  do. 

Ant.  And  how  does  your  content 

Tender  youi'  own  good  fortune  ? 

Seh.  I  remember, 

You  did  supplant  your  brother  Prospero. 

Ant.  True : 

And,  look,  how  well  my  garments  sit  upon  me ; 
Much  feater  than  before :  My  brother's  servants 
Were  then  my  fellows,  now  they  are  my  men. 

Seh.    But,  for  your  conscience — 

Ant.    Ay,  sir ;  where  lies  that  ?  if  it  were  a  kybe, 
'Twould  put  me  to  my  slipper ;  but  I  feel  not 
This  deity  in  my  bosom :  twenty  consciences. 
That  stand  'twixt  me  and  Milan,  candied  be  they, 
And  melt,  e'er  they  molest !     Here  lies  your  brother, 
No  better  than  the  earth  he  lies  upon, 
If  he  were  that  Avhich  now  he's  like,  that's  dead ; 
Whom  I,  with  this  obedient  steel,  three  inches  of  it. 
Can  lay  to  bed  forever :  whiles  you,  doing  thus, 
To  the  perpetual  wink  for  aye  might  put 
This  ancient  morsel,  this  sir  Prudence,  who 
Should  not  upbraid  our  course.     For  all  the  rest. 
They'll  take  suggestion,  as  a  cat  laps  milk ; 
They'll  tell  the  clock  to  any  business  that 
We  say  befits  the  hour. 

Seh.  Thy  case,  dear  friend. 

Shall  be  my  precedent ;  as  thou  got'st  Milan, 
I'll  come  by  Naples.     Draw  thy  sword :  one  stroke 
Shall  free  thee  from  the  tribute  which  thou  pay'st; 
And  I  the  king  shall  love  thee. 

Ant.  Draw  together: 

c  * 


42  THE    TEMPEST.  [Act  11 

And  when  I  rear  my  hand,  do  you  the  like, 
To  fall  it  on  Gonzalo. 

Seb.  0,  but  one  word. 

{^Tliey  converse  apart 

Music.     Re-enter  Ariel,  invisille. 

Ari.    My  master  through  his  art  foresees  the  danger 
That  you,  his  friend,  are  in ;  and  sends  me  forth, 
For  else  his  projects  die,  to  keep  them  living- 

\Sings  in  Gonzalo  s  ear. 

While  you  here  do  snoring  lie, 
Open-eyed  conspiracy 

His  time  doth  take : 
If  of  life  you  keep  a  care, 
Shake  off  slumber,  and  beware: 

Aivake  !  awake  ! 

Ant.    Then  let  us  both  be  sudden. 

Cron.    Now,  good  angels,  preserve  the  king. 

\_They  awake. 

Alon.  Why,  how  now!  ho!  awake!  Why  ai-e  you  drawn? 
Wherefore  this  ghastly  looking  ? 

Gon.  What's  the  matter? 

iSeb.    Whiles  we  stood  here  secui'ing  your  repose, 
Even  now,  we  heard  a  hollow  burst  of  bellowing 
Like  bulls,  or  rather  lions ;  did  it  not  wake  you  ? 
It  struck  mine  ear  most  terribly. 

Alon.  I  heard  nothing 

Ant.    0,  'twas  a  din  to  fright  a  monster's  ear ; 
To  make  an  earthquake ;  sure  it  was  the  roar 
Of  a  whole  herd  of  lions. 

Alon.  Heard  you  this,  Gonzalo  ? 

Gron.    Upon  mine  honour,  sir,  I  heard  a  humming, 
And  that  a  strange  one  too,  which  did  awake  me : 
I  shaked  you,  sir,  and  cried ;  as  mine  eyes  opened, 
I  saw  their  weapons  drawn : — there  was  a  noise, 
That's  verity :   'Best  stand  upon  our  guard ; 
Or  that  we  quit  tuis  place :  let's  draw  our  weapons. 

Alon.  Lead  off  this  ground  ;  and  let's  make  further  search 
For  my  poor  son. 

Cir07i.  Heavens  keep  him  from  these  beasts! 

For  he  is,  sure,  i'  the  island. 

Alon.  Lead  away. 

Ari.    Prospero  my  lord  shall  know  what  I  have  done. 

[^Aside. 
So,  king,  go  safely  on  to  seek  thy  son.  \Exeunt 


Act  ILJ  THE    TEMPEST  43 

SCENE   il.— Another  Fart  of  the  Island. 

Enter  Caliban,  tvith  a  burden  of  toood.     A  noise  of  thun 
der  heard. 

Cal.    All  the  infections  that  the  sun  sucks  up 
From  bogs,  fens,  flats,  on  Prosper  fall,  and  make  him 
By  inch-meal  a  disease  !  His  spirits  hear  me, 
And  yet  I  needs  must  curse.     Br*-  they'll  nor  pinch, 
Fright  me  with  urchin  shows,  pitch  me  i'  the  mire, 
Nor  lead  me,  like  a  firebrand,  in  the  dark, 
Out  of  my  way,  unless  he  bid  them ;  but 
For  every  trifle  are  they  set  upon  me : 
Sometimes  like  apes,  that  moe  and  chatter  at  me. 
And  after,  bite  me ;  then  like  hedge-hogs,  which 
Lie  tumbling  in  my  barefoot  way,  and  mount 
Their  pricks  at  my  foot-fall ;  sometime  am  I 
All  wound  with  adders,  who,  with  cloven  tongues, 
Do  hiss  me  into  madness  : — Lo  !  now  !  lo  ! 

Enter  Trinculo. 

Here  comes  a  spirit  of  his ;  and  to  torment  me, 
For  bringing  wood  in  slowly :  I'll  fall  flat ; 
Perchance  he  will  not  mind  me. 

Trin.  Here's  neither  bush  nor  shrub,  to  bear  off  any  wea- 
ther at  all,  and  another  storm  brewing :  I  hear  it  sing  i'  the 
wind :  yond'  same  black  cloud,  yond'  huge  one,  looks  like 
a  foul  bumbard  that  would  shed  his  liquor.  If  it  should 
thunder,  as  it  did  before,  I  know  not  where  to  hide  my 
head :  yond'  same  cloud  cannot  choose  but  fall  by  pailfuls. 
— AVhat  have  we  here  ?  a  man  or  a  fish?  Dead  or  alive  ?  A 
fish :  he  smells  like  a  fish ;  a  very  ancient  and  fish-like 
smell ;  a  kind  of,  not  of  the  newest,  Poor-John.  A  strange 
fish  !  Were  I  in  England  now  (as  once  I  was),  and  had  but 
this  fish  painted,  not  a  holiday-fool  there  but  would  give  a 
piece  of  silver:  there  would  this  monster  make  a  man;  any 
strange  beast  there  makes  a  man :  when  they  will  not  give 
a  doit  to  relieve  a  lame  beggar,  they  will  lay  out  ten  to  see 
a  dead  Indian.  Legged  like  a  man  !  and  his  fins  like  arms ! 
Warm,  o'  my  troth !  I  do  now  let  loose  my  opinion,  hold 
it  no  longer ;  this  is  no  fish,  but  an  islander,  that  hath  lately 
suffered  by  a  thunderbolt.  [^Thunder.']  Alas!  the  storm 
is  come  again :  my  best  way  is  to  creep  under  his  gaber- 
dine ;  there  is  no  other  shelter  hereabout :  Misery  acquaints 
a  man  with  strange  bedfellows.  I  will  here  shroud,  till  the 
dregs  of  the  storm  be  past.  , 


44  THE    TEMPEST.  [Act  II 

Enter  Stephano,  singing ;  a  bottle  in  his  hand. 

Ste.    J  shall  no  more  to  sea,  to  sea ; 
Sere  shall  I  die  ashore;—^ 

This  is  a  very  scurvy  tune  to  sing  at  a  man's  funeral. 
Well,  here's  my  comfort.  [^Drinka. 

The  master,  the  stvahher,  the  boatswain,  and  Z, 

lite  gunner,  and  Ids  mate. 
Loved  3Iall,  Megg,  and  3Iarian,  and  Margery^ 

But  none  of  us  eared  for  Kate : 

For  she  had  a  tongue  with  a  tang. 

Would  cry  to  a  sailor,  Go,  hang : 
She  loved  not  the  savor  of  tar  nor  of  pitch. 
Yet  a  tailor  might  scratch  her  where  er  she  did  itch: 

Then  to  sea,  boys,  and  let  her  go  hang. 

This  is  a  scurvy  tune,  too :  But  here's  my  comfort. 

[^Drinks. 

Old.    Do  not  torment  me  :  0  ! 

Ste.  What's  the  matter  ?  Have  we  devils  here  ?  Do  you 
put  tricks  upon  us  with  savages,  and  men  of  Inde  ?  Ha ! 
I  have  not  'scaped  drowning,  to  be  afeard  now  of  your  four 
legs ;  for  it  hath  been  said,  As  proper  a  man  as  ever  went 
on  four  legs,  cannot  make  him  give  ground :  and  it  shall  be 
said  so  again,  while  Stephano  breathes  at  nostrils. 

Cal.    The  spirit  torments  me  :  0  ! 

Ste.  This  is  some  monster  of  the  isle,  with  four  legs ;  who 
hath  got,  as  I  take  it,  an  ague :  Where  the  devil  should  he 
learn  our  language  ?  I  Avill  give  him  some  relief,  if  it  be  but 
for  that :  if  I  can  recover  him,  and  keep  him  tame,  and  get 
to  Naples  with  him,  he's  a  present  for  any  emperor  that  ever 
trod  on  neat's-leather. 

Cal.    Do  not  torment  me,  pr'ythee ; 
I'll  bring  my  wood  home  faster. 

Ste.  He's  in  his  fit  now ;  and  does  not  talk  after  the 
wisest.  He  shall  taste  of  my  bottle:  if  he  hath  never 
drunk  wine  afore,  it  will  go  near  to  remove  his  fit :  if  I  can 
recover  him,  and  keep  him  tame,  I  will  not  take  too  much 
for  him :  he  shall  pay  for  him  that  hath  him,  and  that 
soundly. 

Cal.    Thou  dost  me  yet  but  little  hurt;  thou  wilt 
Anon,  I  know  it  by  thy  trembling: 
Now  Prosper  works  upon  thee. 

Ste.  Come  on  your  ways ;  open  your  mouth ;  here  is  that 
which  -will  give  language  to  you,  cat;  open  your  mouth: 


Act  II.]  THE    TEMPEST.  45 

this  will  sliake  your  shaking,  I  can  tell  you,  and  that 
soundly :  you  cannot  tell  who's  your  friend :  open  your 
chaps  again. 

Trin.  I  should  know  that  voice ;  It  should  be — "but  he  is 
drowned  ;  and  these  are  devils :  0  !  defend  me  ! — 

Ste.  Four  legs,  and  two  voices  ;  a  most  delicate  monster ! 
His  forward  voice  now  is  to  speak  well  of  his  friend ;  his 
backward  voice  is  to  utter  foul  speeches,  and  to  detract.  If 
all  the  wine  in  my  bottle  will  recover  him,  I  will  help  his 

ague ;    Come, Amen !    I  will   pour  some   in  thy  other 

mouth. 

Trin.    Stephano, — 

Ste.  Doth  thy  other  mouth  call  me  ?  Mercy  !  mercy ! 
This  is  a  devil,  and  no  monster :  I  will  leave  him ;  I  have 
no  long  spoon. 

Trin.  Stephano ! — If  thou  beest  Stephano,  touch  me,  and 
speak  to  me ;  for  I  am  Trinculo ; — be  not  afeard, — thy  good 
friend  Trinculo. 

Ste.  If  thou  beest  Trinculo,  come  forth;  I'll  pull  thee 
by  the  lesser  legs  :  If  any  be  Trinculo's  legs,  these  are  they. 
Thou  art  very  Trinculo,  indeed :  How  cam'st  thou  to  be  the 
siege  of  this  moon-calf  ?     Can  he  vent  Trinculos  ? 

Trin.  I  took  him  to  be  killed  with  a  thunderstroke : — 
But  art  thou  not  drowned,  Stephano  ?  I  hope  now,  thou  art 
not  drowned.  Is  the  storm  overblown  ?  I  hid  me  under  the 
dead  moon-calf's  gaberdine,  for  fear  of  the  storm:  And  art 
thou  living,  Stephano  ?  0  Stephano, '  two  Neapolitans 
'scaped ! 

Ste.  Pr'ythee,  do  not  turn  me  about ;  my  stomach  is  not 
constant. 

Cal.    These  be  fine  things,  an  if  they  be  not  sprites, 
That's  a  brave  god,  and  bears  celestial  liquor : 
I  will  kneel  to  him. 

Ste.  How  did'st  thou  'scape  ?  How  cam'st  thou  hither  ? 
swear  by  this  bottle,  how  thou  cam'st  hither.  I  escaped 
upon  a  butt  of  sack,  which  the  sailors  heaved  overboard,  by 
this  bottle !  which  I  made  of  the  bark  of  a  tree,  with  mine 
own  hands,  since  I  was  cast  ashore. 

Cal.  I'll  swear,  upon  that  bottle,  to  be  thy  true  subject; 
for  the  liquor  is  not  earthly. 

Ste.    Here ;  swear  then  how  thou  escap'dst. 

Trin.  Swam  ashore,  man,  like  a  duck ;  I  can  swim  like 
a  duck,  I'll  be  sworn. 

Ste.  Here,  kiss  the  book :  Though  thou  canst  swim  like 
a  duck,  thou  art  made  like  a  goose. 

Trin.    0  Stephano,  hast  any  more  of  this  ? 


46  THE    TEMPEST.  [Act  IL 

Ste.  The  wliolc  butt,  man  ;  my  cellar  is  in  a  rock  by  the 
sea-side,  -uhere  my  wine  is  hid.  How  now,  moon-calf?  how 
does  thine  ague  ? 

Cat    Hast  thou  not  dropped  from  heaven  ? 

Ste.  Out  o'  the  moon,  I  do  assure  thee :  I  was  the  man 
in  the  moon,  when  time  was. 

Cal.  I  have  seen  thee  in  her,  and  I  do  adore  thee :  my 
mistress  showed  me  thee,  and  thy  dog,  and  thy  bush. 

Ste.  Come,  swear  to  that :  kiss  the  book  :  I  will  furnish 
it  anon  with  new  contents :  swear. 

Trin.  By  this  good  light,  this  is  a  very  shallow  monster : 
— I  afeard  of  him  ? — a  very  weak  monster  : — The  man  i' 
the  moon  ? — a  most  poor  credulous  monster : — Well  drawn, 
monster,  in  good  sooth. 

Cal.    I'll  show  thee  every  fertile  inch  o'  the  island; 
And  I  will  kiss  thy  foot :  I  pr'ythee,  be  my  god. 

Trin.  By  this  light,  a  most  perfidious  and  drunken  mon- 
ster :  Avhen  his  god's  asleep,  he'll  rob  his  bottle. 

Cal.    I'll  kiss  thy  foot :  I'll  swear  myself  thy  subject. 

Ste.    Come  on,  then  ;  down,  and  swear. 

Trin.  I  shall  laugh  myself  to  death  at  this  puppy-headed 
monster :  A  most  scurvy  monster  !  I  could  find  in  my  heart 
to  beat  him, — 

Ste.    Come,  kiss, 

Trin.  — but  that  the  poor  monster's  in  drink:  An  abom- 
inable monster ! 

Cal.  I'll  show  thee  the  best  springs ;  I'll  pluck  thee  berries : 
I'll  fish  for  thee,  and  get  thee  wood  enough. 
A  plague  upon  the  tyrant  that  I  serve ! 
I'll  bear  him  no  more  sticks,  but  follow  thee, 
Thou  wondrous  man. 

Trin.  A  most  ridiculous  monster ;  to  make  a  wonder  of 
a  poor  drunkard. 

Cal.    I  pr'ythee,  let  me  bring  thee  where  crabs  grow; 
And  I  with  my  long  nails  will  dig  thee  pignuts ; 
Show  thee  a  jay's  nest,  and  instruct  thee  how 
To  snare  the  nimble  marmozet ;  I'll  bring  thee 
To  clustering  filberds,  and  sometimes  I'll  get  thee 
Young  sea-mells  from  the  rock:  Wilt  thou  go  with  me? 

Ste.  I  pr'ythee  now,  lead  the  way,  without  any  more 
talking. — Trinculo,  the  king  and  all  our  company  else  being 
drowned,  we  will  inherit  here. — Here;  bear  my  bottle. 
Fellow  Trinculo,  we'll  fill  him  by  and  by  again. 

Cal.    Farewell^  master ;  fareivell,  fareivell. 

\_Si7igs  drunkenly. 

Trin.    A  liowling  monster ;  a  drunken  monster. 


Act  III.]  THE    TEMPEST.  41 

Cal.   JVo  more  dams  I'll  maJce  for  Jish ; 

Nor  fetch  in  firing 

At  requiring^ 
Nor  scrape  trenchering,  7ior  ivash  dish; 

'Ban,  'Ban,   Ca — Caliban, 
Mas  a  neio  master — Gret  a  neio  man. 

Freedom,  hey-day !  hey-day,  freedom !  hey-day,  freedom  ! 
jSte.    0  brave  monster !  lead  the  way.  \_Uxeunt, 


ACT   III. 

SCENE  L— Before  Prospero's  Cell 
Unter  Ferdinand,  hearing  a  log. 

Fer.    There  be  some  sports  are  painful ;  and  their  labor 
Delight  in  them  sets  off:  some  kinds  of  baseness 
Are  nobly  undergone ;  and  most  poor  matters 
Point  to  rich  ends.     This  my  mean  task 
Would  be  as  heavy  to  me,  as  odious ;  but 
The  mistress,  which  I  serve,  quickens  what's  dead, 
And  makes  my  labors  pleasures :  0,  she  is 
Ten  times  more  gentle  than  her  father's  crabbed ; 
And  he's  composed  of  harshness.     I  must  remove 
Some  thousands  of  these  logs,  and  pile  them  up, 
Upon  a  sore  injunction :  My  sweet  mistress 
Weeps  when  she  sees  me  work ;  and  says,  such  baseness 
Had  ne'er  like  executor.     I  forget : 
But  these  sweet  thoughts  do  even  refresh  my  labors ; 
Most  busiless,  when  I  do  it. 

Enter  Miranda  ;  and  Prospero  at  a  distance. 

Mira.  Alas,  now !  pray  j'oii, 

Work  not  so  hard :  I  would,  the  lightnino;  had 
Burnt  up  those  logs,  that  you  are  enjoined  to  pile  I 
Pray,  set  it  down,  and  rest  you :    when  this  burns, 
'Twill  weep  for  having  wearied  you :    iNIy  father 
Is  hard  at  study ;    pray  now,  rest  yourself ; 
He's  safe  for  these  three  hours. 

Fer.  0  most  dear  mistress, 

The  sun  will  set,  before  I  shall  discharge 
What  I  must  strive  to  do. 

Mira.  If  you'll  sit  down, 

I'll  bear  your  logs  the  while :    Pray,  give  me  that ; 
I'll  carry  it  to  the  pile. 


48  THE    TEMPEST.  [Act  111 

Fer.  No,  precious  creature; 

I'd  rather  crack  my  sinews,  break  my  back, 
Than  you  should  such  dishonor  undergo. 
While  I  sit  lazy  by. 

Mira.  It  would  become  me 

As  well  as  it  does  you :    and  I  should  do  it 
"With  much  more  ease;    for  my  good  will  is  to  it, 
And  yours  it  is  against. 

Pro.  Poor  worm  !    thou  art  infected  • 

This  visitation  shows  it. 

Mira.  You  look  wearily. 

Fer.    No,  noble  mistress ;   'tis  fresh  morning  with  me 
When  you  are  by  at  night.     I  do  beseech  you, 
(Chiefly  that  I  might  set  it  in  my  prayers,) 
What  is  your  name  ? 

Mira.  Miranda :  —  0  my  father, 

I  have  broke  your  best  to  say  so ! 

Fer.  Admired  Miranda  I 

Indeed,  the  top  of  admiration ;    worth 
What's  dearest  to  the  world !    Full  many  a  lady 
I  have  eyed  with  best  regard:    and  many  a  time 
The  harmony  of  their  tongues  hath  into  bondage 
Brought  my  too  diligent  ear :    for  several  virtues 
Have  I  liked  several  women ;    never  any 
With  so  full  soul,  but  some  defect  in  her 
Did  quarrel  with  the  noblest  grace  she  owed, 
And  put  it  to  the  foil :    But  you,   0  you. 
So  perfect,  and  so  peei'less,  are  created 
Of  every  creature's  best. 

Mira.  I  do  not  know 

One  of  my  sex ;    no  woman's  face  remember, 
Save,  from  my  glass,  my  own ;    nor  have  I  seen 
More  that  I  may  call  men,  than  you,  good  friend, 
And  my  dear  father :    how  features  are  abroad, 
I  am  skilless  of;    but,  by  my  modesty, 
(The  jewel  in  my  dower,)  I  would  not  wish 
Any  companion  in  the  world  but  you; 
Nor  can  imagination  form  a  shape. 
Besides  yourself,  to  like  of:    but  I  prattle 
Something  too  wildly,  and  my  father's  precepts 
I  therein  do  forget. 

Fer.                           I  am,  in  my  condition, 
A  prince,  Miranda ;    I  do  think,  a  king ; 
(I  would,  not  so !)  and  would  no  more  endure 
This  wooden  slavery,  than  to  suflfer 
The  flesh-fly  blow  my  mouth. Hear  my  soul  speak : — 


Act  hi.]  THE    TEMPEST.  49 

The  very  instant  tliat  I  saw  you,  did 
My  heart  fly  to  your  service ;    there  resides, 
To  make  me  slave  to  it ;    and,  for  your  sake, 
Am  I  this  patient  log-man. 

Mira.  Do  you  love  me  ? 

Fer.    0  heaven,  0  earth,  bear  witness  to  this  sound, 
And  crown  what  I  profess  with  kind  event, 
If  I  speak  true ;  if  hollowly,  invert 
What  best  is  boded  me  to  mischief!     I, 
Beyond  all  limit  of  what  else  i'  the  world, 
Do  love,  prize,  honor  you. 

Mira.  I  am  a  fool, 

To  weep  at  what  I  am  glad  of. 

Pro.  Fair  encounter 

Of  two  most  rare  aflfections  !     Heavens  rain  grace 
On  that  which  breeds  between  them ! 

Fer.  Wherefore  weep  you  ? 

Mira.    At  mine  unworthiness,  that  dare  not  offer 
What  I  desire  to  give ;    and  much  less  take 
What  I  shall  die  to  want :    but  this  is  trifling ; 
And  all  the  more  it  seeks  to  hide  itself. 
The  bigger  bulk  it  shows.     Hence,  bashful  cunning ! 
And  prompt  me,  plain  and  holy  innocence ! 
I  am  your  wife,  if  you  will  marry  me ; 
If  not,  I  '11  die  your  maid :    to  be  your  fellow 
You  may  deny  me ;    but  I  '11  be  your  servant, 
Whether  you  will  or  no. 

Fer.  My  mistress,  dearest, 

And  I  thus  humble  ever. 

3Iira.  My  husband  then? 

Fer.    Ay,  with  a  heart  as  willing 
As  bondage  e'er  of  freedom :    here's  my  hand. 

Mira.    And  mine,  with  my  heart  in  't :  and  now  farewell, 
Till  half  an  hour  hence. 

Fer.  A  thousand  !    thousand  ! 

[Exeunt  Fer.  and  Mir. 

Pro.    So  glad  of  this  as  they,  I  cannot  be, 
Who  are  surprised  with  all ;    but  my  rejoicing 
At  nothing  can  be  moi-e.     I  '11  to  my  book ; 
For  yet,  ere  supper  time,  must  I  perform 
Much  business  appertaining.  [Exit. 

Vol.  L~4  d  3 


BO  THE    TEMPEST.  [Act  DX 


SCENE  II. — Another  Part  of  the  Island. 

Enter  Stephano  and  Trinculo  ;  Caliban  folloiving  with 
a  bottle. 

Ste.  Tell  not  me  ;  —  when  the  butt  is  out,  we  will  drink 
water ;  not  a  drop  before :  therefore  bear  up,  and  board 
'em :    Servant-monster,  drink  to  me. 

Trin.  Servant-monster  ?  the  folly  of  this  island  !  They 
say,  there  's  but  five  upon  this  isle :  we  are  three  of  them ; 
if  the  other  two  be  brained  like  us,  the  state  totters. 

Ste.  Drink,  servant-monster,  when  I  bid  thee ;  thy  eyes 
are  almost  set  in  thy  head. 

Trin.  Where  should  they  be  set  else  ?  he  were  a  brave 
monster  indeed,  if  they  were  set  in  his  tail. 

Se.  My  man-monster  hath  drowned  his  tongue  in  sack : 
for  my  part,  the  sea  cannot  drown  me :  I  swam,  ere  I  could 
recover  the  shore,  five-and-thirty  leagues,  off  and  on,  by 
this  light.  —  Thou  shalt  be  my  lieutenant,  monster,  or  my 
standard. 

Trin.    Your  lieutenant,  if  you  list ;  he  's  no  standard. 

Ste.    We  '11  not  run,   monsieur  monster. 

Trin.  Nor  go  neither  ;  but  you  '11  lie,  like  dogs  ;  and  yet 
say  nothing  neither. 

Ste.  Moon-calf,  speak  once  in  thy  life,  if  thou  beest  a 
good  moon-calf. 

Cal.  How  does  thy  honour  ?  Let  me  lick  thy  shoe  :  I  *11 
not  serve  him,  he  is  not  valiant. 

Trin.  Thou  liest,  most  ignorant  monster ;  I  am  in  case 
to  justle  a  constable :  Why,  thou  deboshed  fish  thou,  was 
there  ever  man  a  coward,  that  hath  drunk  so  much  sack  as 
I  to-day?  Wilt  thou  tell  a  monstrous  lie,  being  but  half  a 
fish,  and  half  a  monster  ? 

Cal.    Lo,  how  he  mocks  me  !  wilt  thou  let  him,  my  lord? 

Trin.  Lord,  quoth  he  I  —  that  a  monster  should  be  such 
a  natural ! 

Cal.    Lo,  lo,  again !  bite  him  to  death,  I  pr'ythee. 

Ste.    Trinculo,  keep  a  good  tongue  in  your  head ;  if  you 

prove  a  mutineer,  the  next  tree The  poor  monster 's 

my  subject,  and  he  shall  not  suffer  indignity 

Cal.  I  thank  my  noble  lord.  Wilt  thou  be  pleased  to 
hearken  once  again  to  the  suit  I  made  thee  ? 

Ste.  IMarry  will  I:  kneel,  and  repeat  it;  I  will  stand, 
and  s>j  shall  Trinculo. 


Act  ni.]  THE    TEMPEST.  51 

Enter  Ariel,  invisible. 

Gal.  As  I  told  thee  before,  I  am  subject  to  a  tyrant ;  a 
sorcerer,  that  by  his  cunning  hath  cheated  me  of  this  island. 

Ari.    Thou  liest. 

Qal.    Thou  liest,  thou  jesting  monkey,  thou ! 
I  would,  my  valiant  master  would  destroy  thee : 
I  do  not  lie. 

Ste.  Trinculo,  if  you  trouble  him  any  more  in  his  tale, 
by  this  hand,  will  I  supplant  some  of  your  teeth. 

Trin.    Why,  I  said  nothing. 

Ste.    Mum  then,  and  no  more.  —  \To  Caliban.] 
Proceed. 

Cal.    I  say,  by  sorcery  he  got  this  isle : 
From  me  he  got  it.     If  thy  greatness  will 
Revenge  it  on  him  —  for,  I  know  thou  dar'st; 
But  this  thing  dare  not  — 

Ste.    That's  most  certain. 

Cal.    Thou  shalt  be  lord  of  it,  and  I'll  serve  thee. 

Ste.  How,  now,  shall  this  be  compassed  ?  Canst  thou 
bring  me  to  the  party  ? 

Gal.    Yea,  yea,  my  lord ;   I'll  yield  him  thee  asleep, 
Where  thou  may'st  knock  a  nail  into  his  head. 

Ari.    Thou  liest,  thou  canst  not. 

Gal.    What  a  pied  ninny's  this?     Thou  scurvy  patch!  — 
1  do  beseech  thy  greatness,  give  him  blows, 
And  take  his  bottle  from  him :   when  that's  gone. 
He  shall  drink  nought  but  brine ;   for  I'll  not  show  him 
Where  the  quick  freshes  are. 

Ste.  Trinculo,  run  into  no  further  danger :  interrupt  the 
monster  one  word  further,  and  by  this  hand,  I'll  turn  my 
mercy  out  of  doors,  and  make  a  stock-fish  of  thee. 

Trin   Why,  what  did  I  ?    I  did  nothing ;  I'll  go  further  off. 

Ste.    Didst  thou  not  say,  he  lied? 

Ari.    Thou  liest. 

Ste.    Do  I  so  ?  take  thou  that.  \Strikes  him.'] 

As  you  like  this,  give  me  the  lie  another  time. 

Trin.    I  did  not  give  the  lie :  —  Out  o'  your  wits,  and 

hearing  too? A  pox  o'  your  bottle!  this  can  sack,  and 

drinking  do.  —  A  murrain  on  your  monster,  and  the  devil 
take  your  fingers ! 

Gal.    Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Ste.  Now,  forward  with  your  tale.  Pr'ythee  stand 
further  off. 

Gal.    Beat  him  enough  •   after  a  little  time, 
I'll  beat  him  too. 


62  THE    TEMPEST.  [Act  III 

Ste.  Stand  further,  —  Come  proceed. 

Cal.    Why,  as  I  told  thee,   'tis  a  custom  with  hira 
1'  the  afternoon  to  sleep :   there  thou  may'st  brain  him. 
Having  first  seized  his  books ;   or  with  a  log 
Batter  his  skull,  or  paunch  him  with  a  stake, 
Or  cut  his  wezand  with  thy  knife.     Remember, 
First,  to  possess  his  books ;  for  without  them 
He's  but  a  sot,  as  I  am,  nor  hath  not 
One  spirit  to  command :    They  all  do  hate  him 
As  rootedly  as  I :   Burn  but  his  books ; 
He  has  brave  utensils,  (for  so  he  calls  them,) 
Which,  when  he  has  a  house  he'll  deck  withal. 
And  that  most  deeply  to  consider,  is 
The  beauty  of  his  daughter ;   he  himself 
Calls  her  a  nonpareil:   I  never  saw  a  woman, 
But  only  Sycorax  my  dam,  and  she; 
But  she  as  far  surpasseth  Sycorax, 
As  great'st  does  least. 

Ste.  Is  it  so  brave  a  lass? 

Cal.    Ay,  lord ;  she  will  become  thy  bed,  I  warrant, 
And  bring  thee  forth  brave  brood. 

Ste.  Monster,  I  will  kill  this  man :  his  daughter  and  1 
will  be  king  and  queen  :  (save  our  graces  !)  and  Trinculo  and 
thyself  shall  be  viceroys  : — Dost  thou  like  the  plot,  Trinculo  ? 

Trin.    Excellent. 

Ste.  Give  me  thy  hand ;  I  am  sorry  I  beat  thee :  but, 
while  thou  livest,  keep  a  good  tongue  in  thy  head. 

Cal.    Within  this  half  hour  will  he  be  asleep ; 
Wilt  thou  destroy  him  then  ? 

Ste.  Ay,  on  mine  honor. 

Ari.    This  will  I  tell  my  master. 

Cal.    Thou  mak'st  me  merry :  I  am  full  of  pleasure ; 
Let  us  be  jocund :  Will  you  troll  the  catch 
You  taught  me  but  while-ere  ? 

Ste.  At  thy  request,  monster,  I  will  do  reason,  any 
reason :  Come  on,  Trinculo,  let  us  sing.  \^Sing8. 

Flout  'em,  and  skout  'em;  and  shout  'em,  andjlout  'em: 
Thought  is  free. 

Cal.    That's  not  the  tune. 

[Ariel  plays  the  tune  on  a  tahor  2nd  pipe. 

Ste.    What  is  this  same  ? 

Trin.  This  is  the  tune  of  our  catch,  played  by  the  pic- 
ture of  No-body. 

Ste.  If  thou  beest  a  man,  show  thyself  in  thy  likeness ; 
if  thou  beest  a  devil,  take't  as  thou  list. 


Act  III.]  THE    TEMPEST.  5B 

Trin.    0,  forgive  me  my  sins ! 

Ste.    He  that  dies,  pays  all  debts  :  I  defy  thee  :  —  Mercy 
upon  us ! 

Col.    Art  thou  afeard  ? 

Ste.    No,  monster,  not  I. 

Qal.    Be  not  afeard ;  the  isle  is  full  of  noises, 
Sounds,  and  sweet  airs,  that  give  delight,  and  hurt  not. 
Sometimes  a  thousand  twangling  instruments 
Will  hum  about  mine  ears ;  and  sometimes  voices, 
That,  if  I  then  had  waked  after  long  sleep, 
Will  make  me  sleep  again :  and  then,  in  dreaming. 
The  clouds,  methought,  would  open,  and  show  riches 
Ready  to  drop  upon  me ;  that,  when  I  waked, 
I  cried  to  dream  again. 

Ste.    This  will  prove  a  brave  kingdom  to  me,  where  I  shall 
have  my  music  for  nothing. 

Cal.    When  Prospero  is  destroyed. 

Ste.    That  shall  be  by  and  by :  I  remember  the  story. 

Trin.   The  sound  is  going  away :  let's  follow  it,  and,  after, 
do  our  work. 

Ste.    Lead,  monster  ;  we'll  follow.  —  I  would,  I  could  see 
this  taborer :  he  lays  it  on. 

Trin.    Wilt  come  ?     I'll  follow,  Stephano.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — Another  Part  of  the  island. 

Enter  Alonzo,  Sebastian,  Antonio,  Gonzalo,  Adrian, 
Francisco,  and  others. 

Cron.    By'r  lakin,  I  can  go  no  further,  sir ; 
My  old  bones  ache ;  here's  a  maze  trod,  indeed. 
Through  forth-rights,  and  meanders !  by  your  patience, 
I  needs  must  rest  me. 

Alon.  Old  lord,  I  cannot  blame  thee, 

Who  am  myself  attached  with  weariness, 
To  the  dulling  of  my  spirits :  sit  down,  and  rest. 
Even  here  I  will  put  off  my  hope,  and  keep  it 
No  longer  for  my  flatterer :  he  is  drowned. 
Whom  thus  we  stray  to  find ;  and  the  sea  mocks 
Our  frustrate  search  on  land :  Well,  let  him  go. 

Ant.    I  am  right  glad  that  he's  so  out  of  hope. 

\_Aside  to  Sebastian. 
Do  not,  for  one  repulse,  forego  the  purpose 
That  you  resolved  to  effect. 

Seh.  The  next  advantage 

Will  we  take  thoroughly. 

Ant.  Let  it  be  to-night: 


54  THE    TEMPEST.  [Act  III 

For,  now  tliey  arc  oppressed  with  travel,  they 
Will  not,  nor  cannot,  use  such  vigilance, 
As  when  they  are  fresh. 

Seb.  I  say,  to-night :  no  more. 

Solemn  and  strange  music  '^^  and  Prospero  above,  invisible 
Enter  several  strange  Shapes,  bringing  in  a  banquet, 
they  dance  about  it  with  gentle  actions  cf  salutation; 
and  inviting  the  king,  cj-c.  to  eat,  they  depart. 

Alon.    What  harmony  is  this  ?  my  good  friends,  hark ! 

Cron.    Marvellous  sweet  music ! 

Alon.  Give  us  kind  keepers,  heavens  !    What  were  these? 

Seb.    A  living  drollery :  Now  I  will  believe 
That  there  are  unicorns ;  that,  in  Arabia 
There  is  one  tree,  the  phoenix'  throne ;  one  phoenix 
At  this  hour  reigning  there. 

Ant.  I'll  believe  both ; 

And  what  does  else  want  credit,  come  to  me, 
And  I'll  be  sworn  'tis  true :  Travellers  ne'er  did  lie, 
Though  fools  at  home  condemn  them. 

Gon.  If  in  Naples 

I  should  report  this  now,  would  they  believe  me  ? 
If  I  should  say  I  saw  such  islanders, 
(For,  certes,  these  are  people  of  the  island,) 
Who,  though  they  are  of  monstrous  shape,  yet  note, 
Their  manners  are  more  gentle,  kind,  than  of 
Our  human  generation  you  shall  find 
Many,  nay,  almost  any. 

Pro.  Honest  lord, 

Thou  hast  said  well ;    for  some  of  you  there  present 
Are  worse  than  devils.  [Aside. 

Alon.  I  cannot  too  much  muse. 

Such  shapes,  such  gesture,  and  such  sound,  expressing 
(Although  they  want  the  use  of  tongue)  a  kind 
Of  excellent  dumb  discourse. 

Pro.  Praise  in  departing. 

[Aside. 

Fran.    They  vanished  strangely. 

Seb.  No  matter,  since 

They  have  left  their  viands  behind ;  for  we  have  stomachs. — 
Will't  please  you  taste  of  what  is  here  ? 

Alon.  Not  I. 

Gron.    Faith,  sir,  you  need  not  fear :  When  we  were  boys, 
Who  would  believe  that  there  were  mountaineers, 
Dew-lapped  like  bulls,  whose  throats  had  hanging  at  them 
Wallets  of  flesh?  or  that  there  were  such  men, 


Act  IV.]  THE    TEMPEST.  55 

Whose  heads  stood  in  their  breasts?  which  now  we  find, 
Each  putter-out  on  five  for  one,  will  bring  us 
Good  warrant  of. 

Alon.  I  will  stand  to,  and  feed. 

Although  my  last :    no  matter,  since  I  feel 
The  best  is  past :  —  Brother,  my  lord  the  duke, 
Stand  to,  and  do  as  we. 

Thunder  and  lightning.  Enter  Ariel  like  a  Harpy ;  claps 
his  wings  upon  the  table,  and,  by  quaint  device,  the  ban- 
quet vanishes. 

Ari.    You  are  three  men  of  sin,  whom  destiny 
(That  hath  to  instrument  this  lower  world. 
And  what  is  in't)  the  never-surfeited  sea 
Hath  caus'd  to  belch  up :  and  on  this  island. 
Where  man  doth  not  inhabit ;  you  'mongst  men 
Being  most  unfit  to  live.     I  have  made  you  mad : 

[Seeing  Alon.  Seb.  ^-e.  draw  their  sword*. 
And  even  with  such  like  valor,  men  hang  and  drown 
Their  proper  selves.     You  fools !  I  and  my  fellows 
Are  ministers  of  fate ;  the  elements 
Of  whom  your  swords  are  tempered,  may  as  well 
Wound  the  loud  winds,  or  with  bemocked-at  stabs 
Kill  the  still-closing  waters,  as  diminish 
One  dowle  that's  in  my  plume ;  my  fellow  ministers 
Are  like  invulnerable :  if  you  could  hurt, 
Your  swords  are  now  too  massy  for  your  strengtl;^, 
And  will  not  be  uplifted:  but,  remember, 
(For  that 's  my  business  to  you,)  that  you  three 
From  Milan  did  supplant  good  Prospero ; 
Exposed  unto  the  sea,  which  hath  requit  it, 
Him,  and  his  innocent  child :  for  which  foul  deed 
The  powers,  delaying,  not  forgetting,  have 
Incensed  the  seas  and  shores,  yea,  all  the  creatures, 
Against  your  peace :  Thee,  of  thy  son,  Alonzo, 
They  have  bereft,  and  do  pronounce  by  me, 
Lingering  perdition  (worse  than  any  death 
Can  be  at  once)  shall  step  by  step  attend 
You,  and  your  ways ;  whose  wraths  to  guard  you  from 
(Which  here,  in  this  most  desolate  isle,  else  falls 
iJpon  your  heads)  is  nothing  but  heart's  sorrow, 
And  a  clear  life  ensuing. 

Ue  vanishes  in  thunder ;  then,  to  soft  music,  enter  the 
Shapes  again,  and  dance  with  mops  and  mowes,  and  carry 
out  the  table. 


56  THE    TEMPEST.  [Act  IV 

Pro.    \_A8ide.']   Bravely  the  figure  of  this  harpy  hast  thou 
Performed,  my  Ariel;  a  grace  it  had.  devouring: 
Of  my  instruction  hast  thou  nothing  'bated, 
In  what  thou  hadst  to  say :  so,  with  good  life. 
And  observation  strange,  my  meaner  ministers 
Their  several  kinds  have  done :  my  high  charms  work, 
And  these,  mine  enemies,  are  all  knit  up 
In  their  distractions:  they  now  are  in  my  power; 
And  in  these  fits  I  leave  them,  whilst  I  visit 
Young  Ferdinand  (whom  they  suppose  is  drowned) 
And  his  and  my  loved  dai-ling. 

\_Exit  Prospero  from  ahovt. 

Cron.    T  the  name  o'  something  holy,  sir,  why  stand  you 
In  this  strange  stare  ? 

Alon.  0,  it  is  monstrous  !  monstrous  ! 

Methought,  the  billows  spoke,  and  told  me  of  it ; 
The  winds  did  sing  it  to  me ;  and  the  thunder, 
That  deep  and  dreadful  organ-pipe,  pronounced 
The  name  of  Prosper ;  it  did  bass  my  trespass. 
Therefore  my  son  i'  the  ooze  is  bedded ;  and 
I'll  seek  him  deeper  than  e'er  plummet  sounded. 
And  with  him  there  lie  mudded.  \_Uxit. 

Seh.  But  one  fiend  at  a  time, 

I'll  fight  their  legions  o'er. 

Ant.  I'll  be  thy  second. 

[^Uxeunt  See.  a7id  Ant. 

Gon.    All  three  of  them  are  desperate  ;  their  great  guilt, 
Like  poison  given  to  work  a  great  time  after. 
Now  'gins  to  bite  the  spirits :   I  do  beseech  you 
That  are  of  suppler  joints,  follow  them  swiftly, 
And  hinder  them  from  what  this  ecstasy 
May  now  provoke  them  to* 

Adr.  Follow,  I  pray  you. 

[^Exeuntr 


ACT    IV. 

SCENE  I.— Before  Prospero's  Cell 
Enter  Prospero,  Ferdinand,  and  Miranda. 

Pro.    If  I  have  too  austerely  punished  you, 
Your  compensation  makes  amends ;   for  I 
Have  given  you  here  a  thiead  of  mine  own  life, 
Or  that  for  which  I  live;   whom  once  again 
I  tender  to  thy  hand:   all  thy  vexations 


Act  IV.]  THE    TEMPEST.  57 

"Were  but  mj  trials  of  thy  love,  and  thou 

Hast  strangely  stood  the  test :   here,  afore  Heaven, 

I  ratify  this  my  rich  gift.      0  Ferdinand, 

Do  not  smile  at  me,  that  I  boast  her  off; 

For  thou  shalt  find  she  will  outstrip  all  praise, 

And  make. it  halt  behind  her. 

Fer.  I  do  believe  it, 

Against  an  oracle. 

Pro.    Then,  as  my  gift,  and  thine  own  acquisition 

Worthily  purchased,  take  my  daughter :   But 

If  thou  dost  break  her  virgin  knot  before 

All  sanctimonious  ceremonies  may 

With  full  and  holy  rite  be  ministered. 

No  sweet  aspersion  shall  the  heavens  let  fall 

To  make  this  contract  grow ;   but  barren  hate, 

Sour-eyed  disdain,  and  discord,  shall  bestrew 
The  union  of  your  bed  with  w^eeds  so  loathely, 
That  you  shall  hate  it  both :   therefore,  take  heed, 
As  Hymen's  lamps  shall  light  you. 

Fer.  As  I  hope 

For  quiet  days,  fair  issue,  and  long  life. 
With  such  love  as  'tis  now ;   the  murkiest  den. 
The  most  opportune  place,  the  strong'st  suggestion 
Our  worser  Genius  can,  shall  never  melt 
Mine  honor  into  lust ;   to  take  away 
The  edge  of  that  day's  celebration, 
When  I  shall  think,  or  Phoebus'  steeds  are  foundered, 
Or  night  kept  chained  below. 

Pro.  Fairly  spoke ; 

Sit  then,  and  talk  with  her ;   she  is  thine  own. — 
What,  Ariel ;   my  industrious  servant  Ariel ! 

Unter  Ariel. 

Ai'i.    What  would  my  potent  master  ?   here  I  am. 

P7'o.   Thou  and  thy  meaner  fellows  your  last  service 
Did  worthily  perform ;   and  I  must  use  you 
In  such  another  trick  :   go,  bring  the  rabble. 
O'er  whom  I  give  thee  power,  here,  to  this  place : 
Incite  them  to  quick  motion ;   for  I  must 
Bestow  upon  the  eyes  of  this  young  couple 
Some  vanity  of  mine  art ;   it  is  my  promise, 
And  they  expect  it  from  me. 

Ari  Presently  ? 

Pro.    Ay,  with  a  twink. 

Ari.    Before  you  can  say.  Come  and  go. 
And  breathe  twice ;   and  cry,  *S'o,  so ; 


58  THE    TEMPEST.  [Act  fV 

Each  one,  tvipying  on  his  toe, 
Will  be  here  with  mop  and  mowe : 
Do  you  love  me,  master  ?   no. 

Pro.    Dearly,  my  delicate  Ariel:  Do  not  approach, 
Till  thou  dost  hear  me  call. 

Ari.  Well  I  conceive.  \^Exit 

Pro.  Look,  thou  be  true ;   do  not  give  dalliance 
Too  much  the  rein ;  the  strongest  oaths  are  straw 
To  the  fire  i'  the  blood :   be  more  abstemious, 
Or  else,  good  night,  your  vow ! 

Per.  I  warrant  you,  sir; 

The  white-cold  virgin  snow  upon  my  heart 
Abates  the  ardor  of  my  liver. 

Pro.  Well.— 

Now  come,  my  Ariel ;   bring  a  corollary, 
Rather  than  want  a  spirit ;   appear,  and  pertly. — 
No  tongue ;  all  eyes ;  be  silent.  \_Soft  mum. 

A  Masque.     Enter  Iris. 

Iris.    Ceres,  most  bounteous  lady,  thy  rich  leas 
Of  wheat,  rye,  barley,  vetches,  oats,  and  peas ; 
Thy  turfy  mountains,  where  live  nibbling  sheep, 
And  flat  meads  thatched  with  stover,  them  to  keep , 
Thy  banks  with  peonied  and  lilied  brims. 
Which  spongy  April  at  thy  best  betrims, 
To  make  cold  nymphs  chaste  crowns ;  and  thy  broom  groves, 
Whose  shadow  the  dismissed  bachelor  loves, 
Being  lass-lorn ;  thy  pole-clipt  vineyard ; 
And  thy  sea-marge,  sterile,  and  rocky-hard. 
Where  thou  thyself  dost  air :  The  queen  o'  the  sky, 
Whose  watery  arch,  and  messenger,  am  I, 
Bids  thee  leave  these;  and  with  her  sovereign  grace, 
Here  on  this  grass-plot,  in  this  very  place, 
To  come  and  sport :  her  peacocks  fly  amain ; 
Approach,  rich  Ceres,  her  to  entertain. 

Enter  Ceres. 

Oer.    Hail,  many-colored  messenger,  that  ne'er 
Dost  disobey  the  wife  of  Jupiter; 
Who,  with  thy  safi"ron  wings,  upon  my  flowers 
Difi'usest  honey-drops,  refreshing  showers : 
And  with  each  end  of  thy  blue  bow  dost  crown 
My  bosky  acres,  and  my  unshrubbed  down. 
Rich  scarf  to  my  proud  earth :  Why  hath  thy  queen 
Summoned  me  hither,  to  this  short-grassed  green? 

Iris.    A  contract  of  true  love  to  celebrate; 


Act  R'.]  the    TEMPEST.  & 

And  some  donation  freely  to  estate 
On  the  blessed  lovers. 

Cer.  Tell  me,  heavenly  bow, 

If  Venus,  or  her  son,  as  thou  dost  know. 
Do  now  attend  the  queen  ?  since  they  did  plot 
The  means,  that  dusky  Dis  my  daughter  got. 
Her  and  her  blind  boy's  scandaled  company 
I  have  forsworn. 

Iris.  Of  her  society 

Be  not  afraid:  I  met  her  deity 
Cutting  the  clouds  towards  Paphos ;  and  her  son 
Dove-drawn  with  her :  here  thought  they  to  have  done 
Some  wanton  charm  upon  this  man  and  maid, 
Whose  vows  are,  that  no  bed  rite  shall  be  paid 
Till  Hymen's  torch  be  lighted :  but  in  vain : 
Mars's  hot  minion  is  returned  again ; 
Her  waspish-headed  son  has  broke  his  arrows, 
Swears  he  will  shoot  no  more,  but  play  with  sparrows, 
And  be  a  boy  right  out. 

Cer.  Highest  queen  of  state, 

Great  Juno  comes;  I  know  her  by  her  gait. 

Unter  Juno. 

Juno.    How  does  my  bounteous  sister?     Go  with  me 
To  bless  this  twain,  that  they  may  prosperous  be, 
And  honored  in  their  issue. 

SONG. 

Jun.    Honor,  riches,  marriage-blessing, 

Long  continuance,  a7id  increasing, 

Hourly  joys  he  still  upon  you  ! 

Juno  sings  her  blessings  on  you. 
Cer.    HartKs  increase,  and  foison  plenty ; 

Barns  and  gartiers  never  empty ; 

Vines,  with  clustering  bunches  growing ; 

Plants  with  goodly  burden  bowing ; 

Spring  come  to  you,  at  the  farthest. 

In  the  very  end  of  harvest  I 

Scarcity  and  want  shall  shun  you; 

Ceres'  blessing  so  is  on  you. 

Fer.    This  is  a  most  majestic  vision,  and 
Harmonious  charmingly :  May  I  be  bold 
To  think  these  spirits  ? 

Pro.  Spirits,  which  by  mine  art 

I  have  from  their  confines  called  to  enact 
My  present  fancies. 


60  THE   TEMPEST  [Act  IV. 

Fer.  Let  me  live  here  ever; 

So  rare  a  ■wondered  fiither,  and  a  wife, 
Make  this  place  Paradise. 

[Juno  and  Ceres  whisper,  and  send  Iris  on  employment. 

Pro.  Sweet  now,  silence ; 

Juno  and  Ceres  whisper  seriously ; 
There  's  something  else  to  do :  hush,  and  be  mute, 
Or  else  our  spell  is  marred. 

Iris.    You  nymphs,  called  Naiads,  of  the  wandering  brooks, 
With  your  sedged  crowns,  and  ever  harmless  looks, 
Leave  your  crisp  channels,  and  on  this  green  land 
Answer  your  summons ;  Juno  does  command : 
Come,  temperate  nymphs,  and  help  to  celebrate 
A  contract  of  true  love ;  be  not  too  late. 

Enter  certain  Nymphs. 

You  sun-burned  sicklemen,  of  August  weary, 
Come  hither  from  the  furrow,  and  be  merry ; 
Make  holy-day:  your  rye-straws  hats  put  on, 
And  these  fresh  nymphs  encounter  every  one 
In  country  footing. 

Enter  certain  Reapers,  properly  habited:  they  join  ivitn 
the  Nymphs  in  a  graceful  dance;  towards  the  end 
vjhereof  Prospero  starts  suddenly,  and  speaks;  after 
which,  to  a  strange,  hollotv,  and  confused  noise,  they 
heavily  vanish. 

Pro.    [^Aside.l     I  had  forgot  that  foul  conspiracy 
Of  the  beast  Caliban,  and  his  confederates, 
Against  my  life  ;  the  minute  of  their  plot 
Is  almost  come.  —  [To  the  /Spirits.']    Well  done ;  —  avoid ,     • 
no  more. 

Fer.    This  is  strange:  your  father's  in  some  passion 
That  works  him  strongly. 

3Iira.  Never  till  this  day, 

Saw  I  him  touched  with  anger  so  distempered. 

Pro.    You  do  look,  my  son,  in  a  moved  sort, 
As  if  you  were  dismayed :  be  cheerful,  sir : 
Our  revels  now  are  ended :  these  our  actors. 
As  I  foretold  you,  were  all  spirits,  and 
A.re  melted  into  air,  into  thin  air : 
A.nd,  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this  vision, 
The  cloud-capped  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself. 
Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve ; 
And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded. 


Act  IV.]  THE    TEMPEST.  61 

Leave  not  a  rack  behind :  We  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  of,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep.  —  Sir,  I  am  vexed ; 
Bear  "with  my  weakness;  my  old  brain  is  troubled 
Be  not  disturbed  with  my  infirmity : 
If  you  be  pleased,  retire  into  my  cell. 
And  there  repose ;  a  turn  or  two  I  '11  walk, 
To  still  my  beating  mind. 

Fer.    Mira.  We  wish  you  peace.    [Exeunt. 

Pro.    Come  with  a  thought : — I  thank  you  : — Ariel,  come. 

Enter  Akiel. 

Ari.    Thy  thoughts  I  cleave  to :   What's  thy  pleasure  ? 

Pro.    Spirit, 
We  must  prepare  to  meet  with  Caliban. 

Ari.    Ay,  my  commander :   when  I  presented  Ceres, 
I  thought  to  have  told  thee  of  it ;   but  I  feared, 
Lest  I  might  anger  thee. 

Pro.    Say  again,  where  didst  thou  leave  these  varlets  ? 

Ari.    I  told  you,  sir,  they  were  red-hot  with  drinking ; 
So  full  of  valor,  that  they  smote  the  air 
For  breathing  in  their  faces ;   beat  the  ground 
For  kissing  of  their  feet:   yet  always  bending 
Towards  their  project :   then  I  beat  my  tabor. 
At  which,  like  unbacked  colts,  they  pricked  their  ears, 
Advanced  their  eye-lids,  lifted  up  their  noses, 
As  they  smelt  music ;   so  I  charmed  their  ears 
That,  calf-like,  they  my  lowing  followed,  through 
Toothed  briers,  sharp  furzes,  pricking  goss,  and  thorns, 
Which  entered  their  frail  shins :   at  last  I  left  them 
I'  the  filthy  mantled  pool  beyond  your  cell. 
There  dancing  up  to  the  chins,  that  the  foul  lake 
O'er-stunk  their  feet. 

Pro.    This  was  well  done,  my  bird: 
Thy  shape  invisible  retain  thou  still : 
The  trumpery  in  my  house,  go,  bring  it  hither. 
For  stale  to  catch  these  thieves. 

Ari.  I  go,  I  go.  [Exit 

Pro.    A  devil,  a  born  devil,  on  whose  nature 
Nurture  can  never  stick ;   on  whom  my  pains, 
Humanely  taken,  all,  all  lost,  quite  lost; 
And  as,  with  age,  his  body  uglier  grows. 
So  his  mind  cankers:   I  will  plague  them  all, 

Re-enter  Ariel  loaden  loitli  glistering  apparel,  Sfc. 
Even  to  roaring:  —  Come,  hang  them  on  this  line. 

£ 


62  THE    TEMPEST.  [Act  IV 

Prospero  and  Ariel  remain  invisible.     Enttr  Caliban, 
Stephano,  and  Trinculo  ;  all  wet. 

Cal.  Pray  you,  tread  softly,  that  the  blind  mole  may  not 
Hear  a  foot  fall :   we  now  are  near  his  cell. 

tSte.  Monster,  your  fairy,  which,  you  say,  is  a  harmless 
fairy,  has  done  little  better  than  played  the  Jack  with  us. 

Trin.  Monster,  I  do  smell  all  horse-piss ;  at  which  my 
nose  is  in  great  indignation. 

Ste.  So  is  mine.  Do  you  hear,  monster  ?  If  I  should 
take  a  displeasure  against  you ;  look  you, — 

Trin.    Thou  wert  but  a  lost  monster. 

Cal.  Good  my  lord,  give  me  thy  favor  still : 
Be  patient,  for  the  prize  I'll  bring  thee  to 
Shall  hood-wink  this  mischance ;   therefore,  speak  softly , 
All's  hushed  as  midnight  yet. 

Trin.    Ay,  but  to  lose  our  bottles  in  the  pool, — 

Ste.  There  is  not  only  disgrace  and  dishonor  in  that, 
monster,  but  an  infinite  loss. 

Trin.  That's  more  to  me  than  my  wetting :  yet  this  is 
your  harmless  fairy,  monster. 

Ste.  I  will  fetch  off  my  bottle,  though  I  be  o'er  ears  for 
my  labor. 

Oal.    Pr'ythee,  my  king,  be  quiet :    Seest  thou  here, 
This  is  the  mouth  of  the  cell :   no  noise,  and  enter : 
Do  that  good  mischief,  which  may  make  this  island 
Thine  own  forever,  and  I,  thy  Caliban, 
For  aye,  thy  foot-licker. 

Ste.    Give  me  thy  hand :  I  do  begin  to  have  bloody  thoughts. 

Trin.  0  king  Stephano  !  0  peer  !  0  worthy  Stephano  ! 
look,  what  a  wardrobe  here  is  for  thee  ! 

Cal.    Let  it  alone,  thou  fool :   it  is  but  trash. 

Trin .  0,  ho,  monster ;  we  know  what  belongs  to  a  frippery :- 
—  0  king  Stephano  ! 

Ste.  Put  off  that  gown,  Trinculo ;  by  this  hand,  I'll  have 
that  gown. 

Trin^  Thy  grace  shall  have  it. 

Cal.    The  dropsy  drown  this  fool !  what  do  you  mean. 
To  doat  thus  on  such  luggage  ?     Let  it  alone, 
And  do  the  murder  first ;  if  he  awake. 
From  toe  to  crown  he'll  fill  our  skins  with  pinches ; 
Make  us  strange  stuff. 

Ste.  Be  you  quiet,  monster.  —  Mistress  line,  is  not  this 
my  jerkin  ?  Now  is  the  jerkin  under  the  line  ;  now,  jerkin, 
you  are  like  to  lose  your  hair,  and  prove  a  bald  jerkin 


Act  V.J  THE    TEMPEST.  63 

Trin.  Do,  do :  We  steal  by  line  and  level,  and  't  like 
your  grace. 

8te.  I  thank  thee  for  that  jest ;  here's  a  garment  for't : 
wit  shall  not  go  unrewarded,  while  I  am  king  of  this  coun. 
try :  Steal  hy  line  and  level,  is  an  excellent  pass  of  pate : 
there's  another  garment  for't. 

Trin.  Monster,  come,  put  some  lime  upon  your  fingers, 
and  away  with  the  rest. 

Cal.    I  will  have  none  on't :  we  shall  lose  our  time, 
And  all  be  turned  to  barnacles,  or  to  apes 
With  foreheads  villanous  low. 

Ste.  Monster,  lay-to  your  fingers  ;  help  to  bear  this  away, 
where  my  hogshead  of  wine  is,  or  I'll  turn  you  out  of  my 
kingdom :  go  to,  carry  this. 

Trin.    And  this. 

Ste.   Ay,  and  this. 

A  noise  of  Hunters  heard.  Enter  divers  Spirits  in  shape 
of  hounds,  and  hunt  them  about ;  Prospero  and  Ariel 
Betting  them  on. 

Pro.    Hey,  Mountain,  hey ! 

Ari.    Silver!  there  it  goes.  Silver! 

Pro.    Fury!    Fury!  there,  Tyrant.,  there!  hark,  hark! 
[Cal.  Ste.  and  Trin.  are  driven  out. 
Go,  charge  my  goblins  that  they  grind  their  joints 
With  dry  convulsions ;  shorten  up  their  sinews 
With  aged  cramps;  and  more  pinch-spotted  make  them, 
Than  pard,  or  cat  o'  mountain. 

Ari.  Hark,  they  roar. 

Pro.    Let  them  be  hunted  soundly :  At  this  hour 
Lie  at  my  mercy  all  mine  enemies : 
Shortly  shall  all  my  labours  end,  and  thou 
Shalt  have  the  air  at  freedom :  for  a  little. 
Follow,  and  do  me  service.  [^Fxeunt 


ACT   V. 

SCENE  1.— Before  the  Cell  of  Prospero. 
Enter  Prospero  in  his  magic  robes,  and  Ariel. 

Pro.    Now  does  my  project  gather  to  a  head : 
My  charms  crack  not ;  my  spirits  obey ;  and  time 
Goes  upright  with  his  carriage.     How's  the  day? 

Ari.    On  tlic  sixth  hour ;  at  which  time,  my  lord, 
You  said  our  work  should  cease. 


64  THE    TEMPEST.  [Act  V 

Pro.  I  did  say  so, 

When  first  I  raised  the  tempest.     Say,  my  spirit, 
How  fares  the  king  and  his  followers? 

Ari.    Confined  together 
In  the  same  fashion  as  you  gave  in  charge ; 
Just  as  you  left  them,  sir ;  all  prisoners 
In  the  lime  grove  which  weather-fends  your  cell : 
They  cannot  budge,  till  you  release.     The  king. 
His  brother,  and  yours,  abide  all  three  distracted; 
And  the  remainder  mourning  over  them, 
Brim-ful  of  sorrow,  and  dismay ;  but  chiefly 
Him  you  termed,  sir,  the  good  old  lord,   Cronzalo ; 
His  tears  run  down  his  beard,  like  winter's  drops 
From  eaves  of  reeds :  your  charm  so  strongly  works  them, 
That  if  you  now  beheld  them,  your  affections 
Would  become  tender. 

Pro.  Dost  thou  think  so,  spirit? 

A^'i.    INIine  would,  sir,  were  I  human. 

Pro.  And  mine  shall. 

Hast  thou,  which  art  but  air,  a  touch,  a  feeling 
Of  their  afilictions  ?   and  shall  not  myself. 
One  of  their  kind,  that  relish  all  as  sharply, 
Passion  as  they,  be  kindlier  moved  than  thou  art  ? 
Though  with  their  high  wrongs  I  am  struck  to  the  quick, 
Yet,  with  my  nobler  reason,  'gainst  my  fury, 
Do  I  take  part :   the  rarer  action  is 
In  virtue  than  in  vengeance :   they  beiJig  penitent, 
The  sole  drift  of  my  purpose  doth  extend 
Not  a  frown  further :    Go,  release  them,  Ariel ; 
My  charms  I  '11  break,  their  senses  I  '11  restore. 
And  they  shall  be  themselves. 

Ari.  I  '11  fetch  them,  sir.       [Exit. 

Pro.  Ye  elves  of  hills,  brooks,  standing  lakes,  and  groves; 
And  ye,  that  on  the  sands  with  printless  foot 
Do  chase  the  ebbing  Neptune,  and  do  fly  him 
When  he  comes  back  ;    you  demi-puppets,  that 
By  moon-shine  do  the  green-sour  ringlets  make, 
Whereof  the  ewe  not  bites ;    and  you,  whose  pastime 
Is  to  make  midnight-mushrooms ;    that  rejoice 
To  hear  the  solemn  curfew ;    by  whose  aid 
(Weak  masters  though  ye  be)  I  have  be-dimmed 
The  noon-tide  sun,  called  forth  the  mutinous  winds, 
And  'twixt  the  green  sea  and  the  azured  vault 
Set  roaring  war :    to  the  dread  rattling  thunder 
Have  I  given  fire,  and  rifted  Jove's  stout  oak 
With  his  own  bolt :    the  strong-based  promontory 


Act  v.]  THE    TEMPEST.  65 

Have  I  made  shake ;    and  by  the  spurs  plucked  up 

The  pine  and  cedar :    graves,  at  my  command, 

Have  waked  their  sleepers :    oped  and  let  them  forth, 

By  my  so  potent  art :    But  this  rough  magic 

I  here  at)jm'e ;    and,  when  I  have,  required 

Some  heavenly  music,  (which  even  now  I  do,) 

To  work  mine  end  upon  their  senses,  that 

This  airy  charm  is  for,  I'll  break  my  staff, 

Bury  it  certain  fathoms  in  the  earth. 

And,  deeper  than  did  ever  plummet  sound, 

I'll  drown  my  book.  [^Solemn  music. 

He-enter  Ariel  :  after  Mm,  Alonzo,  with  a  frantic  gesture, 
attended  hy  Gonzalo  ;  Sebastian  and  Antonio  in  like 
manner,  attended  hy  Adrian  and  Francisco  :  They  all 
enter  the  circle  loliicli  Prospero  liad  made,  and  there 
stand  charmed ;  which  Prospero  observing,  speaks. 

A  solemn  air,  and  the  best  comforter 

'10  au  unsettled  fancy,  cure  thy  brains. 

Now  useless,  boiled  within  thy  skull !     There  stand, 

For  you  are  spell-stopped. 

Holy  Gonzalo,  honorable  man, 
Mine  eyes,  ever  sociable  to  the  show  of  thine, 
Fall  fellowly  drops.  —  The  charm  dissolves  apace; 
And  as  the  morning  steals  upon  the  night, 
Meltiaig  the  darkness,  so  their  rising  senses 
Begin  to  chase  the  ignorant  fumes  that  mantle 
Their  clearer  reason.  —  0  my  good  Gonzalo, 
My  true  preserver,  and  a  loyal  sir 
To  him  thou  follow'st ;    I  will  pay  thy  graces 
Home,  both  in  word  and  deed.  —  Most  cruelly 
Didst  thou,  Alonzo,  use  me  and  my  daughter: 
Thy  brother  was  a  furtherer  in  the  act ;  — 
Thou 'rt  pinched  for't,  now,  Sebastian. —  Flesh  and  blood, 
You  brother  mine,  that  entertained  ambition, 
Expelled  remorse  and  nature ;    who  with  Sebastian 
(Whose  inward  pinches  therefore  are  most  strong,) 
Would  here  have  killed  your  king ;    I  do  forgive  thee. 
Unnatural  though  thou  art !  —  Their  understanding 
Begins  to  swell ;    and  the  approaching  tide 
Will  shortly  fill  the  reasonable  shores. 
That  now  lie  foul  and  muddy.     Not  one  of  them. 
That  yet  looks  on  me,  or  would  know  me :  —  Ariel, 
Fetch  me  the  hat  and  rapier  in  my  cell;  [Exit  Aribl 
I  will  dis-case  me,  and  myself  present, 
Vol.  I.  —  5  e  * 


66  THE   TEMPEST  [Act  V 

As  I  Avas  sometime  Milan: — quickly,  spirit; 
Thou  shalt  ere  long  be  free. 

Ariel  re-enters,  singing,  and  helps  to  attire  PrubPERO 
Ari.       Where  the  bee  sueks,  there  suck  I; 
In  a  coivslip's  bell  I  lie: 
There  I  couch  when  owls  do  ay. 
On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly, 
After  summer,  merrily: 
Merrily,  inerrily,  shall  I  live  noiv. 
Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 

Pro.    Why,  that 's  my  dainty  Ariel ;  I  shall  miss  thee ; 
But  yet  thou  shalt  have  freedom :  so,  so,  so  — 
To  the  king's  ship,  invisible  as  thou  art : 
There  shalt  thou  find  the  mariners  asleep 
Under  the  hatches ;  the  master,  and  the  boatswain, 
Being  awake,  enforce  them  to  this  place ; 
And  presently,  I  pr'ythea 

Ari.    I  drink  the  air  before  me  and  return 
Or  e'er  your  pulse  twice  beat.  [^Exit  Ariel. 

Cron.    All  torment,  trouble,  wonder,  and  amazement 
Inhabits  here :   Some  heavenly  power  guide  us 
Out  of  this  fearful  country ! 

Pro.  Behold,  sir  king. 

The  wronged  duke  of  Milan,  Prospero :  * 

For  more  assurance  than  a  living  prince 
Does  now  speak  to  thee,  I  embrace  thy  body; 
And  to  thee  and  thy  company,  I  bid 
A  hearty  welcome. 

Alon.  Whe'r  thou  beest  he,  or  no, 

Or  some  enchanted  trifle  to  abuse  me. 
As  late  I  have  been,  I  not  know:  thy  pulse 
Beats,  as  of  flesh  and  blood ;  and,  since  I  saw  thee, 
The  aflliction  of  my  mind  amends,  with  which, 
I  fear,  a  madness  held  me :  this  must  crave 
(An  if  this  be  at  all)  a  most  strange  story. 
Thy  dukedom  I  resign ;  and  do  entreat 
Thou  pardon  me  my  wrongs  :  —  But  how  should  Prospero 
Be  living,  and  be  here  ? 

Pro.  First,  noble  friend. 

Let  me  embrace  thine  age ;  whose  honor  cannot 
Be  measured,  or   confined. 

Cron.  Whether  this  be, 

Or  be  not,  I  '11  not  swear. 

Pro.  You  do  yet  taste 

Some  subtiltics  o'  the  isle,  that  will  not  let  vou 


Act  v.]  THE   TEMPEST.  67 

Believe  things  certain :  —  Welcome,  my  friends  all : 
But  you,  my  brace  of  lords,  were  I  so  minded, 

[^Aside  to  Seb.  and  Ant. 
I  here  could  pluck  his  highness'  frown  upon  you, 
And  justify  you  traitors :  at  this  time 
I'll  tell  no  tales. 

Seb.  The  devil  speaks  in  him.  [^Aside. 

Fro.  No :  — 

For  you,  most  wicked  sir,  whom  to  call  brother 
Would  even  infect  my  mouth,  I  do  forgive 
Thy  rankest  fault ;  all  of  them ;  and  require 
My  dukedom  of  thee,  which,  perforce,  I  know. 
Thou  must  restore. 

Alon.  If  thou  beest  Prospero, 

Give  us  particulars  of  thy  preservation  : 
How  thou  hast  met  us  here,  who  three  hours  since 
Were  wrecked  upon  this  shore ;  where  I  have  lost 
(How  sharp  the  point  of  this  remembrance  is !) 
My  dear  son  Ferdinand. 

Pro.  I  am  wo  for't,  sir. 

Alon.    Irreparable  is  the  loss;  and  Patience 
Says,  it  is  past  her  cure. 

Pro.  I  rather  think, 

You  have  not  sought  her  help ;  of  whose  soft  grace, 
For  the  like  loss,  I  have  her  sovereign  aid, 
And  rest  myself  content. 

Alo7i.  You  the  like  loss? 

Pro.    As  great  to  me,  as  late ;  and  portable 
To  make  the  dear  loss,  have  I  means  much  weaker 
Than  you  may  call  to  comfort  -you ;   for  I 
Have  lost  my  daughter. 

Alon.  A  daughter  ? 

0  heavens !   that  they  were  living  both  in  Naples, 
The  king  and  queen  there !   that  they  were,  I  wish 
Myself  were  mudded  in  that  oozy  bed 
Where  my  son  lies.     When  did  you  lose  your  daughter? 

Pro.    In  this  last  tempest.     I  perceive,  these  lords 
At  this  encounter  do  so  much  admire, 
That  they  devour  their  reason ;   and  scarce  think 
Their  eyes  do  offices  of  truth,  their  words 
Are  natural  breath :   but  howsoe'er  you  have 
Been  justled  from  your  senses,  know  for  certain, 
That  I  am  Prospero,  and  that  very  duke 
Which  was  thrust  forth  of  Milan;   who  most  strangely 
Upon  this  shore,  where  you  were  wrecked,  was  landed. 
To  be  the  lord  ou't.     No  more  yet  of  this; 


68  THE    TEMPEST.  [Aot  V 

For   'tis  a  chronicle  of  day  by  day, 

Not  a  relation  for  a  breakfast,  nor 

Befitting  tins  first  meeting.     Welcome,  sir; 

This  cell's  my  court :   here  have  I  few  attendants, 

And  subjects  none  abroad :  pray  you,  look  in. 

My  dukedom  since  you  have  given  me  again, 

I  will  requite  you  with  as  good  a  thing ; 

At  least,  bring  forth  a  wonder,  to  content  ye, 

As  much  as  me  my  dukedom. 

The  entrance  of  the  Cell  opens,  and  discovers  Ferdinand 
and  Miranda  playing  at  chess. 

Mira.    Sweet  lord,  you  play  me  false. 

JE'er.  No,  my  dearest  love, 

I  would  not  for  the  world. 

Mira.    Yes,  for  a  score  of  kingdoms  you  should  wrangle, 
And  I  would  call  it  fair  play. 

Alon.  If  this  prove 

A  vision  of  the  island,  one  dear  son 
Shall  I  twice  lose. 

Seb.  A  most  high  miracle ! 

Fer.    Though  the  seas  threaten,  they  are  merciful : 
I  have  cursed  them  without  cause. 

\Kneels  to  Alon. 

Alon.  Now  all  the  blessings 

Of  a  glad  father  compass  thee  about ! 
Arise,  and  say  how  thou  cam'st  here. 

Mira.  0 !  wonder 

How  many  goodly  creatures  are  there  here ! 
How  beauteous  mankind  is !     0  brave  new  world, 
That  has  such  people  in't ! 

Pro.  'Tis  new  to  thee. 

Alon.    What  is  this  maid,  with  whom  thou  wast  at  play  ? 
Your  eld'st  acquaintance  cannot  be  three  hours : 
Is  she  the  goddess  that  hath  severed  us. 
And  brought  us  thus  together  ? 

Fer.  Sir,  she's  mortal ; 

But,  by  immortal  Providence,  she's  mine ; 
I  chose  her,  when  I  could  not  ask  my  father 
For  his  advice ;  nor  thought  I  had  one :   she 
Is  daughter  to  this  famous  duke  of  Milan, 
Of  whom  so  often  I  have  heard  renown. 
But  never  saw  before ;   of  whom  I  have 
Received  a  second  life,  and  second  father 
This  lady  makes  him  to  me. 

Alon.  I  am  hers: 


Act  v.]  THE    TEMPEST.  69 

But  0,  how  oddly  will  it  sound,  that  I 
Must  ask  my  child  forgiveness ! 

Pro.  There,  sir,  stop  : 

Let  us  not  burden  our  remembrances 
With  heaviness  that's  gone. 

Cron.  I  have  inly  wept, 

Or  should  have  spoke  ere  this.     Look  down,  you  gods, 
,  And  on  this  couple  drop  a  blessed  crown ; 
For  it  is  you,  that  have  chalked  forth  the  way 
Which  brought  us  hither ! 

Alon.  I  say.  Amen,  Gonzalo. 

Gron.    Was  Milan  thrust  from  Milan,  that  his  issue 
Should  become  kings  of  Naples  ?     0,  rejoice 
Beyond  a  common  joy ;   and  set  it  down 
With  gold  on  lasting  pillars  :  In  one  voyage 
Did  Claribel  her  husband  find  at  Tunis ; 
And  Ferdinand,  her  brother,  found  a  wife 
Where  he  himself  was  lost ;  Prospero  his  dukedom, 
In  a  poor  isle ;  and  all  of  us,  ourselves, 
When  no  man  was  his  own. 

Alon.  Give  mc  your  hands : 

[To  Fer.  and  Mira. 
Let  grief  and  sorrow  still  embrace  his   heart, 
That  doth  not  wish  you  joy ! 

Cron.  Be't  so  !  Amen  ! 

Re-enter  Ariel,  ivith  the  Master  and  Boatswain  amazedly 
following. 

0  look,  sir,  look,  sir ;  here  are  more  of  us ! 

1  prophesied,  if  a  gallows  were  on  land. 

This  fellow  could  not  drown :  —  Now,  blasphemy. 
That  swear'st  grace  o'erboard,  not  an  oath  on  shore  ? 
Hast  thou  no  mouth  by  land  ?     What  is  the  news  ? 

Boats.    The  best  news  is,  that  we  have  safely  found 
Our  king,  and  company :  the  next  our  ship, — 
Which,  but  three  glasses  since,  we  gave  out  split, — 
Is  tight  and  yare,  and  bravely  rigged,  as  when 
We  first  put  out  to   sea. 

Ari.  Sir,  all  this  service^ 

Have  I  done  since  I  went.  V   [Aside 

Pro.  My  tricksy  spirit !  j 

Alon.    These  are  not  natural  events ;  they  strengthen, 
From  strange  to  stranger:  —  Sa}--,  how  came  you  hither? 

Boats.    If  I  did  think,  sir,  I  were  well  awake, 
['d  strive  to  tell  you.     We  were  dead  of  sleep, 
And  (how,  we  know  not)  all  clapped  under  hatches, 


70  THE    TEMPEST.  [Act  V 

Where,  but  even  now,  with  strange  and  several  noises 
Of  roaring,  shrieking,  howling,  gingling  chains, 
And  more  diversity  of  sounds,  all  horrible, 
We  were  awaked ;  straightway  at  liberty : 
Where  we,  in  all  her  trim,  freshly  beheld 
*Our  royal,  good,  and  gallant  ship ;  our  master 
Capering  to  eye  her :   On  a  trice,  so  please  you, 
Even  in  a  dream,  were  we  divided  from  them, 
And  were  brought  moping  hither, 

Ai'i.  Was't  well  done?  \rA    '^ 

Pro.  Bravely,  my  diligence.    Thou  shalt  be  free,  j  ^ 
Alon.    This  is  as  strange  a  maze  as  e'er  men  trod: 
And  there  is  in  this  business  more  than  nature 
Was  ever  conduct  of:  some  oracle 
Must  rectify  our  knowledge. 

Pro.  Sir,  my  liege, 

Do  not  infest  your  mind  wdth  beating  on 
The  strangeness  of  this  business :  at  picked  leisure, 
Which  shall  be  shortly,  single  I'll  resolve  you 
(Which  to  you  shall  seem  probable)  of  every 
These  happened  accidents :  till  when,  be  cheerful, 
And  think  of  each  thing  well. —  Come  hither,  spirit ; 

[Aside. 
Set  Caliban  and  his  companions  free : 
Untie  the  spell.    [Exit  Ariel.]    How  fares  my  gracious  sir  ? 
There  are  yet  missing  of  your  company 
Some  few  odd  lads,  that  you  remember  not. 

Re-enter  Ariel,  driving  in  Caliban,  Stepiiano,  and  Trin 
CULO,  in  their  stolen  aj^parel. 

Ste.  Every  man  shift  for  all  the  rest,  and  let  no  man 
take  care  for  himself;  for  all  is  but  fortune:  —  Coragio, 
bullj -monster,  Coragio  ! 

Trin.    If  these  be  true  spies  which  I  w^ear  in  my  head 
here's  a  goodly  sight. 

Col.    0  Setebos,  these  be  brave  spirits,  indeed! 
How  fine  my  master  is  I     I  am  afraid 
He  will  chastise  me- 

Seh.  Ha,  ha! 

"WTiat  things  are  these,  my  lord  Antonio  ? 
Will  money  buy  them  ? 

Ant.  Very  like ;  one  of  them 

Is  a  plain  fish,   and,  no  doubt,  marketable. 

Pro.    Mark  but  the  badges  of  these  men,  my  lords, 
Then  say,  if  they  be  true :  —  This  misshapen  knave, 
Fiis  mother  was  a  witch  ;  and  one  so  strong 


Act  V.J  THE    TEMPEST.  71 

That  could  control  the  moon,  make  flows  and  ebbS) 
And  deal  in  her  command,  without  her  power: 
These  three  have  robbed  me ;  and  this  demi-devil 
(For  he's  a  bastard  one)  had  plotted  with  them 
To  take  my  life :  two  of  these  fellows  you 
Must  know,  and  own ;  this  thing  of  darkness  1 
Acknowledge  mine. 

Cal.  I  shall  be  pinched  to  death. 

Alon.    Is  not  this  Stephano,  my  drunken  butler? 

Seh.    He  is  drunk  now :   Where  had  he  wine  ? 

Alon.    And  Trinculo  is  reeling  ripe :  Where  should  thev 
Find  this  grand  liquor  that  hath  gilded  them  ?  — 
How  cam'st  thou  in  this  pickle  ? 

Trin.  I  have  been  in  such  a  pickle,  since  I  saw  you 
last,  that,  I  fear  me,  will  never  out  of  my  bones,  I  shall 
not  fear  fly-blowing. 

Seh.    Why,  how  now,   Stephano  ? 

Ste.    0,  touch  me  not ;  I  am  not  Stephano,  but  a  cramp. 

Pro.    You'd  be  king  of  the  isle,  sirrah? 

Ste.    I  should  have  been  a  sore  one  then. 

Alon.    This  is  as  strange  a  thing  as  e'er  I  looked  on. 

[Pointing  to  Caliban, 

Pro.    He  is  as  disproportioned  in  his  manners. 
As  in  his  shape :  —  Go,  sirrah,  to  my  cell ; 
Take  with  you  your  companions ;  as  you  look 
To  have  my  pardon,  trim  it  handsomely. 

Cal.    Ay,  that  I  will ;  and  I'll  be  wise  hereafter, 
And  seek  for  grace :  What  a  thrice  double  ass 
Was  I,  to  take  this  drunkard  for  a  god, 
And  worship  this  dull  fool ! 

Pro.  Go  to  ;  away  ! 

Alon.    Hence,  and  bestow  your  luggage  where  you  found  it. 

Seb.    Or  stole  it,  rather. 

\_Exeunt  Cal.  Ste.  and  Trin. 

Pro.    Sir,  I  invite  your  highness,  and  your  train, 
To  my  poor  cell ;  where  you  shall  take  your  rest 
For  this  one  night ;  which  (part  of  it)  I'll  waste 
With  such  discourse,  as,  I  not  doubt,  shall  make  it 
Go  quick  away:  the  story  of  my  life. 
And  the  particular  accidents,  gone  by, 
Since  I  came  to  this  isle  :  And  in  the  morn, 
I'll  bring  you  to  your  ship,  and  so  to  Naples, 
W^here  I  have  hope  to  see  the  nuptial 
Of  these  our  dear-beloved  solemnized ; 
And  thence  retire  me  to  my  Milan,  where 
Every  third  thought  shall  be  my  grave. 


72  THE   TEMPEST.  [Act  V. 

Ahn,  I  long 

To  hear  the  story  of  your  life,  which  must 
Take  the  ear  strangely. 

P7'o.  I'll  deliver  all ; 

And  promise  you  calm  seas,  auspicious  gales, 
And  sail  so  expeditious,  that  shall  catch 
Your  1  oyal  fleet  far  ofl".  —  My  Ariel,  —  chick, — 
That  is  thy  charge ;  then  to  the  elements 
Be  free,  and  fare  thou  well !  —  [Aside.']     Please  you,  draw 
near,  {^Exeunt. 


EPILOGUE 


SPOKEN     BY     PROSPERO. 

Now  my  charms  are  all  o'erthrown, 
And  what  strength  I  have's  mine  own, 
Which  is  most  faint :  now,   't  is  true, 
I  must  be  here  confined  by  you, 
Or  sent  to  Naples :  Let  me  not, 
Since  I  have  my  dukedom  got. 
And  pardoned  the  deceiver,  dwell 
In  this  bare  island,  by  your  spell; 
But  release  me  from  my  bands. 
With  the  help  of  your  good  hands. 
Gentle  breath  of  yours  my  sails 
Must  fill,  or  else  my  project  fails, 
Which  was  to  please :  Now  I  want 
Spirits  to  enforce,  art  to  enchant; 
And  my  ending  is  despair. 
Unless  I  be  relieved  by  prayer; 
Which  pierces  so,  that  it  assaults 
Mercy  itself,  and  frees  all  faults. 

As  you  from  crimes  would  pardoned  be, 
Let  your  indulgence  set  me  free. 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


73 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

Duke  of  Milan,  Father  to  Silvia. 

Valentine,  |    QentUmen  of  Verona. 

Proteus,      j 

Antonio,  Father  to  Proteus. 

Thurio,  a  foolish  Rival  to  Valentine 

Eglamour,  Agent  for  Silvia  in  her  escape. 

Speed,  a  cloivnish  Servant  to  Valentine. 

Launce,   Servant  to  Proteus. 

Pantuio,   Servant  to  Antonio. 

Host,  where  Julia  lodges  in  Milan. 

Outlaws. 

Julia,  a  Lady  of  Verona,  beloved  hy  Proteus. 

Silvia,  the  Buke's  Daughter^  Moved  hy  Valentine. 

Lucetta,    Waiting-icoman  to  Julia. 

Servants,  Musicians. 

SCENE.     Sometimes  in  Verona;  sometimes  in  Milan;  and  oh 
the  frontiers  of  Mantua. 


a4) 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — An  open  Place  in   Verona. 
Enter  Valentine  and  Proteus. 

Val.    Cease  to  persuade,  my  loving  Proteus; 
Home-keeping  youth  have  ever  homely  wits: 
Wer't  not,  affection  chains  thy  tender  days 
To  the  sweet  glances  of  thy  honored  love, 
I  rather  Avould   entreat  thy  company. 
To  see  the  wonders  of  the  world  abroad, 
Than  living  dully  sluggardized  at  home, 
Wear  out  thy  youth  with  shapeless  idleness. 
But,  since  thou  lov'st,  love   still,  and  thrive  therein, 
Even  as  I  would,  when  I  to  love  begin. 

Pro.    Wilt  thou  begone?     Sweet  Valentine,  adieu. 
Think  on  thy  Proteus,  when  thou,  haply,  seest 
Some  rare  note-worthy  object  in  thy  travel: 
Wish  me  partaker  in  thy  happiness. 
When  thou  dost  meet  good  hap ;  and,  in  thy  danger, 
If  ever  danger  do  environ  thee. 
Commend  thy  grievance   to  my  holy  prayers, 
For  I  will  be  thy  bead's-man,  Valentine. 

Val.    And  on  a  love-book  pray  for  my  success. 

Pro.    Upon  some  book  I  love,  I'll  pray  for  thee 

Val.    That's  on  some  shallow  story  of  deep  love. 
How  yf^ung  Leander  crossed  the  Hellespont. 

Pro.    That's  a  deep  story  of  a  deeper  love ; 
For  he  was  more  than  over  shoes  in  love. 

Val.    'Tis  true ;  for  you  are  over  boots  in  love. 
And  yet  you  never  SAvam  the  Hellespont. 

Pro.    Over  the  boots?  nay,  give  me  not  the  boots. 

Val.    No,  I  will  not,  for  it  boots  thee  not. 

Pro.  WhatY 


76  TWO  GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.       [Act  1. 

Val.    To  be  in  love,  where  scorn  is  bought  with  groans ; 
Co  J  looks,  with  heart-sore  sighs ;  one  fading  moment  s  mirth, 
With  twenty  watchful,  weary,  tedious  nights : 
If  haply  won,  perhaps  a  hapless  gain ; 
If  lost,  why  then  a  grievous  labor  won ; 
However,  but  a  folly  bought  with  wit, 
Or  else  a  wit  by  folly  vanquished. 

Pro.    So  by  your  circumstance,  you  call  me  fool. 

Val.    So,  by  your  circumstance,  I  fear,  you'll  prove. 

I*ro.    'Tis  love  you  cavil  at ;  I  am  not  Love. 

Val.    Love  is  your  master,  for  he  masters  you: 
And  he  that  is  so  yoked  by  a  fool, 
Methinks  should  not  be  chronicled  for  wise- 
Pro.    Yet  writers  say.  As  in  the  sweetest  bud 
The  eating  canker  dwells,  so  eating  love 
Inhabits  in  the  finest  wits  of  all. 

Val.    And  writers  say.  As  the  most  forward  bud 
Is  eaten  by  the  canker  ere  it  blow, 
Even  so  by  love  the  young  and  tender  wit 
Is  turned  to  folly ;  blasting  in  the  bud, 
Losing  his  verdure  even  in  the  prime. 
And  all  the  fair  effects  of  future  hopes. 
But  wherefore  waste  I  time  to  counsel  thee 
That  art  a  votary  to  fond  desire  ? 
Once  more  adieu :  my  father  at  the  road 
Expects  my  coming,  there  to  see  me  shipped. 

Pro.    And  thither  will  I  bring  thee,  Valentine. 

Val.    Sweet  Proteus,  no ;  now  let  us  take  our  leave. 
To  Milan,  let  me  hear  from  thee  by  letters. 
Of  thy  success  in  love,  and  what  news  else 
Betideth  here  in  absence  of  thy  friend ; 
And  I  likewise  will  visit  thee  with  mine. 

JPro.    All  happiness  bechance  to  thee  in  Milan  ! 

Val.    As  much  to  you  at  home!    and  so,  farewell!^ 

\_JSxit  Valentine 

Pro.    He  after  honor  hunts,  I  after  love. 
He  leaves  his  friends,  to  dignify  them  more ; 
I  leave  myself,  my  friends,  and  all  for  love. 
Thou,  Julia,  thou  hast  metamorphosed  me ; 
Made  me  neglect  my  studies,  lose  my  time. 
War  with  good  counsel,  set  the  world  at  nought ; 
Made  wit  with  musing  weak,  heart  sick  with  thought- 

Pnter  Speed. 

Speed.    Sir  Proteus,  save  you :    Saw  you  my  master  ? 
Pro.    But  now  he  parted  hence,  to  embark  for  Milan. 


Act  I.]        TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  77 

Speed.    Twenty  to  one,  then,  he  is  shipped  already; 
And  I  have  played  the  sheep,  in  losing  him. 

Pro.    Indeed  a  sheep  doth  very  often  stray, 
An  if  the  shepherd  be  awhile  away. 

Speed.  You  conclude  that  my  master  is  a  shepherd  then, 
and  I  a  sheep  ? 

Pro.    I  do. 

Speed.  Why  then,  my  horns  are  his  horns,  whether  I 
wake  or  sleep. 

Pro.    A  silly  answer,  and  fitting  well  a  sheep. 

Speed.    This  proves  me  still  a  sheep. 

Pro.    True ;    and  thy  master  a  shepherd. 

Speed.    Nay,  that  I  can  deny  by  a  circumstance. 

Pro.    It  shall  go  hard,  but  I'll  prove  it  by  another. 

Speed.  The  shepherd  seeks  the  sheep,  and  not  the  sheep 
the  shepherd ;  but  I  seek  my  master,  and  my  master  seeka 
not  me :   therefore  I  am  no  sheep. 

Pro.  The  sheep  for  fodder  follow  the  shepherd,  the  shep- 
herd for  food  follows  not  the  sheep ;  thou  fur  wages  follow- 
est  thy  master,  thy  master  for  wages  follows  not  thee: 
therefore  thou  art  a  sheep. 

Speed.    Such  another  proof  will  make  me  cry  baa. 

Pro.  But  dost  thou  hear  ?  gav'st  thou  my  letter  to  Julia  ? 

Speed.  Ay,  sir ;  I,  a  lost  mutton,  gave  your  letter  to  her, 
a  laced  mutton ;  and  she,  a  laced  mutton,  gave  me,  a  lost 
mutton,  nothing  for  my  labor. 

Pro.  Here's  too  small  a  pasture  for  such  a  store  of  muttons. 

Speed.  If  the  ground  be  overcharged,  you  were  best  stick  her. 

Pro.   Nay,  in  that  you  are  astray ;   'twere  best  pound  you. 

Speed.  Nay,  sir,  less  than  a  pound  shall  serve  me  for 
carrying  your  letter. 

Pro.    You  mistake ;    I  mean  the  pound,  a  pinfold. 

Speed.  From  a  pound  to  a  pin  ?  fold  it  over  and  over, 
'Tis  threefold  too  little  for  carrying  a  letter  to  your  lover. 

Pro.    But  what  said  she  ?    did  she  nod  ? 

[Speed  nods. 

Speed.    I. 

Pro.    Nod,  I !    why,  that's  noddy. 

Speed.  You  mistook,  sir.  I  say  she  did  nod :  and  you 
ask  me,  if  she  did  nod ;    and  1  say,  I. 

Pro.    And  that  set  together  is  —  noddy. 

Speed.  Now  you  have  taken  the  pains  to  set  it  together, 
take  it  for  your  pains. 

Pro.    No,   no,  you  shall  have  it  for  bearing  the  letter. 

Speed.    Well,  I  perceive  I  must  be  fain  to  bear  with  you. 

Pro.    Why,  sir,  how  do  you  bear  with  me  ? 


78  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.        [Act  L 

Speed.  Marry,  sir,  the  letter  very  orderly;  having 
uothing  but  the  word,  noddy,  for  my  pains. 

Pro.    BeshreAv  me,  but  you  have  a  quick  wit. 

Speed.    And  yet  it  cannot  overtake  your  slow  purse. 

Pro.   Come,  come,  open  the  matter  in  brief :  What  said  she  ? 

Speed.  Open  your  purse,  that  the  money  and  the  matter 
may  be  both  at  once  delivered. 

Pro.    Well,  sir,  here  is  for  your  pains :  What  said  she  ? 

Speed.    Truly,  sir,  I  think  you'll  hardly  win  her. 

Pro.    Why  ?     Could'st  thou  perceive  so  much  from  her  ? 

Speed.  Sir,  I  could  perceive  nothing  at  all  from  her ;  no, 
not  so  much  as  a  ducat  for  delivering  your  letter  :  And  being 
so  hard  to  me  that  brought  your  mind,  I  fear  she'll  prove  as 
hard  to  you  in  telling  your  mind.  Give  her  no  token  but 
stones,  for  she's  as  hard  as  steel. 

Pro.    What,  said  she  nothing  ? 

Speed.  No,  not  so  much  as  —  tahe  this  for  thy  pains. 
To  testify  your  bounty,  I  thank  you,  you  have  testerned  me ; 
in  requital  whereof,  henceforth  carry  your  letters  yourself: 
and  so,  sir,  I'll  commend  you  to  my  master. 

Pro.    Go,  go,  begone,  to  save  your  ship  from  wreck; 
Which  cannot  perish,  having  thee  aboard, 
Being;  destined  to  a  drier  death  on  shore :  — 
I  must  go  send  some  better  messenger ; 
I  fear  my  Julia  would  not  deign  my  lines, 
Receiving  them  from  such  a  worthless  post.         [^Exeurd. 

SCENE  II.     The  same.     Garden  of  Julia's  House. 
Enter  Julia  and  Lucetta. 

Jul.    But  say,  Lucetta,  now  we  are  alone, 
Would'st  thou  then  counsel  me  to  fall  in  love  ? 

Luc.    Ay,  madam  ;   so  you  stumble  not  unheedfully. 

Jul.    Of  all  the  fair  resort  of  gentlemen, 
That  every  day  with  parle  encounter  me. 
In  thy  opinion,  which  is  worthiest  love  ? 

Luc.  Please  you,  repeat  their  names,  I'll  show  my  mind 
According  to  my  shallow  simple  skill. 

Jul.   What  think'st  thou  of  the  fair  Sir  Eglamour? 

Luc.    As  of  a  knight  well-spoken,  neat  and  fine ; 
But,  were  I  you,  he  never  should  be  mine. 

Jul.    What  think'st  thou  of  the  rich  Mercatio  ? 

Luc.    Well  of  his  wealth ;   but  of  himself,  so,  so. 

Jul.    What  think'st  thou  of  the  gentle  Proteus  ? 

Luc.    Lord,  lord !   to  see  what  folly  reigns  in  us ! 

Jul     How  now  !  what  means  this  passion  at  his  name  ? 


Act  I.]        TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  79 

Luc.    Pardon,  dear  madam ;  'tis  a  passing  shame, 
That  I,  unworthy  body  as  I  am, 
Should  censure  thus  on  lovely  gentlemen. 

Jul.    Why  not  on  Proteus,  as  of  all  the  rest  ? 

Luc.    Then  thus, of  many  good  I  think  him  best. 

Jul.    Your  reason  ? 

Luc.    I  have  no  other  but  a  woman's  reason ; 
[  think  him  so,  because  I  think  him  so. 

Jul.    And  would'st  thou  have  me  cast  my  love  on  him  ? 

Luc.    Ay,  if  you  thought  your  love  not  cast  away. 

Jul.    Why,  he  of  all  the  rest  hath  never  moved  me. 

Luc.    Yet  he  of  all  the  rest,  I  think,  best  loves  ye. 

Jul.    His  little  speaking  shows  his  love  but  small. 

Luc.    Fire,  that's  closest  kept  burns  most  of  all. 

Jul   They  do  not  love  that  do  not  show  their  love. 

Luc.    0,  they  love  least,  that  let  men  know  their  love. 

Jul.    I  v.ould,  I  knew  his  mind. 

Luc.  Peruse  this  paper,  madam. 

Jul.    To  Julia.  —  Say,  from  whom  ? 

Luc.  That  the  contents  will  show. 

Jul.    Say,  say ;  who  gave  it  thee  ? 

Luc.    Sir  Valentine's   page ;    and   sent,    I   think,    from 
Proteus : 
lie  would  have  given  it  you,  but  I  being  in  the  way, 
Did  in  your  name  receive  it ;  pardon  the  fault,  I  pray. 

Jul.    Now,  by  my  modesty,  a  goodly  broker ! 
Dare  you  presume  to  harbor  wanton  lines  ? 
To  whisper  and  conspire  against  my  youth  ? 
Now,  trust  me,   'tis  an  office  of  great  worth, 
And  you  an  officer  fit  for  the  place. 
There,  take-  the  paper,  see  it  be  returned ; 
Or  else  return  no  more  into  my  sight. 

Luc.    To  plead  for  love  deserves  more  fee  than  hate. 

Jul.    Will  you  be  gone  ? 

Luc.  That  you  may  ruminate.     [Exit. 

Jul.    And  yet,  I  would  I  had  o'erlooked  the  letter. 
It  were  a  shame  to  call  her  back  again, 
And  pray  her  to  a  fault  for  which  I  chid  her. 
What  fool  is  she,  that  knows  I  am  a  maid. 
And  would  not  force  the  letter  to  my  view ! 
Since  maids,  in  modesty,  say  No,  to  that 
Which  they  would  have  the  profferer  construe.  Ay. 
Fie,  fie,  how  wayward  is  this  foolish  love, 
That,  like  a  testy  babe,  will  scratch  the  nurse, 
And  presently,  all  humbled,  kiss  the  rod ! 
How  churlishly  I  chid  Lucetta  hence, 


80  TWO  GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.        [Act  I. 

When  willingly  I  -would  have  had  her  here ! 
How  angerlj  I  taught  my  brow  to  frown, 
When  inward  joy  enforced  my  heart  to  smile: 
My  penance  is,  to  call  Lucetta  back. 
And  ask  permission  for  my  folly  past :  — 
What  ho  !  Lucetta  ! 

Re-enter  Lucetta. 

Luc.    What  would  your  ladyship  ? 

Jul.    Is  it  near  dinner  time  ? 

Luc.    I  would  it  were : 
That  you  might  kill  your  stomach  on  your  meat. 
And  not  upon  your  maid. 

Jul.    What  is't  you  took  up 
So  gingerly  ? 

Luc.    Nothing. 

Jul.    Why  didst  thou  stoop  then  ? 

Luc.    To  take  a  paper  up  that  I  let  fall. 

Jul.    And  is  that  paper  nothing? 

Luc.    Nothing  concerning  me. 

Jul.    Then  let  it  lie  for  those  that  it  concerns. 

Luc.    Madam,  it  will  not  lie  where  it  concerns. 
Unless  it  have  a  false  interpreter. 

Jul.    Some  love  of  yours  hath  writ  to  you  in  rhyme. 

Luc.    That  I  might  sing  it,  madam,  to  a  tune: 
Give  me  a  note :  your  ladyship  can  set.    ' 

Jul.    As  little  by  such  toys  as  may  be  possible : 
Best  sing  it  to  the  tune  of  Light  o    love. 

Luc.    It  is  too  heavy  for  so  light  a  tune. 

Jul.    Heavy  ?  belike  it  hath  some  burden  then. 

Luc.    Ay;  and  melodious  were  it  would  you  sing  it. 

Jul.    And  why  not  you? 

Luc.    I  cannot  reach  so  high. 

Jul.    Let's  see  your  song  :  —  How  now,  minion  ? 

Luc.    Keep  tune  there  still,  so  you  will  sing  it  out: 
And  yet,  methinks,  I  do  not  like  this  tune. 

Jul.    You  do  not  ? 

Luc.    No,  madam ;  it  is  too  sharp. 

Jul.    You,  minion,  are  too  saucy. 

Luc.    Nay,  now  you  are  too  flat. 
And  mar  the  concord  with  too  harsh  a  descant : 
There  wanteth  but  a  mean  to  fill  your  song. 

Jul.    Tl*e  mean  is  drowned  with  your  unruly  base. 

Luc.    Indeed,  I  bid  the  base  for  Proteus. 

Jul.    This  babble  shall  not  henceforth  trouble  me. 
Here  is  a  coil  with  protestation  !  [  Tears  the  letter. 


Act  L]        two  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  81 

Go,  get  you  gone ;  and  let  the  papers  lie : 
You  would  be  fingering  them,  to  anger  me. 

Luc.    She  makes  it  strange ;  but  she  would  be  best  pleased 
To  be  so  angered  with  another  letter. 

[^Exit 

Jul.    Naj,  would  I  were  as  angered  with  the  same ! 

0  hateful  hands,  to  tear  such  loving  words  ! 
Injurious  wasps !  to  feed  on  such  sweet  honey, 
And  kill  the  bees,  that  yield  it,  with  your  stings ! 
I'll  kiss  each  several  paper  for  amends. 

And  here  is  writ  —  kind  Julia  ;  —  unkind  Julia ! 
As  in  revenge  of  thy  ingratitude, 

1  throw  thy  name  against  the  bruising  stones, 
Trampling  contemptuously  on  thy  disdain. 
Look,  hero  is  writ — love-woujided  Proteus; — • 
Poor  wounded  name  !  my  bosom,  as  a  bed. 

Shall  lodge  thee,  till  thy  wound  be  thoroughly  healed ; 

And  thus  I  search  it  with  a  sovereign  kiss. 

But  twice,  or  thrice,  was  Proteus  written  down : 

Be  calm,  good  wind,  blow  not  a  word  away, 

Till  I  have  found  each  letter  in  the  letter. 

Except  mine  own  name ;  that  some  whirlwind  bear 

Unto  a  rugged,  fearful,  hanging  rock. 

And  throw  it  thence  into  the  raging  sea ! 

Lo,  here  in  one  line  is  his  name  twice  writ, — 

Poor,  forlorn  Proteus,  passionate  Proteus, 

To  the  sweet  Julia;  —  that  I'll  tear  away; 

And  yet  I  will  not,  sith  so  prettily 

He  couples  it  to  his  complaining  names : 

Thus  will  I  fold  them  one  upon  another ; 

Now  kiss,  embrace,  contend,  do  what  you  will. 

Re-enter  Lucetta. 

Luc.    Madam, 
Dinner  is  ready,  and  your  father  stays. 

Jul.    Well,  let  us  go. 

Luc.   What,  shall  these  papers  lie  like  tell-tales  here? 

Jul.    If  you  respect  them,  best  to  take  them  up. 

Luc.    Nay,  I  was  taken  up  for  laying  them  down : 
Yet  here  they  shall  not  lie,  for  catching  cold. 

Jul.    I  see  you  have  a  month's  mind  to  them. 

Luc.    Ay,  madam,  you  may  say  what  sights  you  see, 
I  see  things  too,  although  you  judge  I  wink. 

Jul.    Come,  come,  will't  please  you  go? 

[  Exeunt. 

Vol.  L  —  6 


82  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.         [Act  1 

SCENE  III.     The  same.     A  Room  in  Antonio's  House. 
Enter  Antonio  and  Panthino. 

Ant.    Tell  me,  Panthino,  Avhat  sad  talk  was  that, 
Wherewith  my  brother  held  you  in  the  cloister? 

Pant.    'Twas  of  his  nephew  Proteus,  your  son. 

Ant.    Why,  what  of  him? 

Pant.  He  wondered,  that  your  lordship 

Would  suffer  him  to  spend  his  youth  at  home ; 
While  other  men,  of  slender  reputation. 
Put  forth  their  sons  to  seek  preferment  out : 
Some,  to  the  wars,  to  try  their  fortune  there; 
Some,  to  discover  islands  far  away; 
Some,  to  the  studious  universities. 
For  an}^,  or  for  all  these  exercises, 
He  said,  that  Proteus,  your  son,  was  meet; 
And  did  reciuest  me,  to  importune  you. 
To  let  him  spend  his  time  no  more  at  home, 
Which  would  be  great  im})eachment  to  his  age, 
In  having  known  no  travel  in  his  youth. 

Ant.    Nor  need'st  thou  much  importune  me  to  that 
Whereon  this  month  I  have  been  hammering. 
I  have  considered  well  his  loss  of  time ; 
And  how  he  cannot  be  a  perfect  man. 
Not  being  tried  and  tutored  in  the  world : 
Experience  is  by  industry  achieved, 
And  perfected  by  the  swift  course  of  time : 
Then,  tell  me,  whither  were  I  best  to  send  him  ? 

Pant.    I  think,  your  lordship  is  not  ignorant, 
How  his  companion,  youthful  Valentine, 
Attends  the  emperor  in  his  royal  court. 

Ant.    I  know  it  well. 

Pant.  'Twere  good,  I  think,  your  lordship  sent  him  thither ; 
There  shall  he  practise  tilts  and  tournaments, 
Hear  sweet  discoui-se,  converse  with  noblemen; 
And  be  in  eye  of  evei-y  exercise. 
Worthy  his  youth  and  nobleness  of  birth. 

Ant.    I  like  thy  counsel :    well  hast  thou  advised ; 
And,  that  thou  may'st  perceive  how  well  I  like  it, 
The  execution  of   it  shall  make  known ; 
Even  with  the  speediest  expedition 
I  will  despatch  him  to  the  emperor's  court. 

Pant.    To-morrow,  niay  it  please  you,  Don  Alphonso, 
With  otiier  gentlemen  of  good  esteem, 
Are  journeying  to  salute  the  emperor, 
And  to  commend  their  service  to  his  will. 


Act  I.]        I'WO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  83 

Ant.    Good  company ;    "vrith  them  shall  Proteus  go : 
And,  in  good  time,  —  now  will  we  break  with  him. 

U7iter  Proteus. 

Pro.    Sweet  love  !    sweet  lines  !    sweet  life  ! 
Here  is  her  hand,  the  agent  of  her  heart : 
Here  is  her  oath  for  love,  her  honor's  pawn : 
0,  that  our  fathers  would  applaud  our  loves, 
To  seal  our  happiness  Avith  their  consents  ' 

0  heavenly  Julia ! 

Ant.    How  now?    what  letter  are  you  reading  there? 

Pro.    May't  please  your  lordship,   'tis  a  word  or  two 
Of  commendations  sent  from  Valentine, 
Delivered  by  a  friend  that  came  from  him. 

Ant.    Lend  me  the  letter  ;    let  me  see  what  news. 

Pro.    There  is  no  news,  my  lord  ;    but  that  he  writes 
How  happily  he  lives,  how  well  beloved 
And  daily  graced  by  the  emperor  ; 
Wishing  me  with  him,  partner  of  his  fortune. 

Ant.    And  how  stand  you  affected  to  his  wish? 

Pro.    As  one  relying  on  your  lordship's  will, 
And  not  depending  on  his  friendly  wish. 

Ant.    My  will  is  something  sorted  with  his  wish; 
Muse  not  that  I  thus  suddenly  proceed  ; 
For  what  I  will,  I  will,  and  there  an  end. 

1  am  resolved,  that  thou  shalt  spend  some  time 
With  Valentinus  in  the  emperor's  court ; 
What  maintenance  he  from  his  friends  receives. 
Like  exhibition  thou  shalt  have  from  me. 
To-morrow  be  in  readiness  to  go  : 

Excuse  it  not,  for  I  am  peremptory. 

Pro.    My  lord,  I  cannot  be  so  soon  provided ; 
Please  you,  deliberate  a  day  or  two. 

Ant.  Look,  what  thou  want'st,  shall  be  sent  after  thee : 
No  more  of  stay  ;    to-morrow  thou  must  go.  — 
Come  on,  Panthino  ;    you  shall  be  employed 
To  hasten  on  his  expedition. 

[^Exeunt  AxT.  and  Pant. 

Pro.    Thus  have  I  shunned  the  fire,  for  fear  of  burning ; 
And  drenched  me  in  the  sea,  where  I  am  drowned : 
I  feared  to  show  my  father  Julia's  letter, 
Lest  he  should  take  exceptions  to  my  love  ; 
And  with  the  vantage  of  mine  own  excuse 
Hath  he  excepted  most  against  my  love. 
0,  how  this  spring  of  love  resemblcth 

The  uncertain  glory  of  an  April  day  ; 


84  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.        [Act! 

"Whicli  now  shows  all  the  beauty  of  the  sun, 
And  by  and  by  a  cloud  takes  all  away  ! 

Re-enter  Panthino. 

Pant.    Sir  Proteus,  your  father  calls  for  you  ; 
He  is  in  haste  ;    therefore,  I  pray  you  go. 

Pro.    Why,  this  it  is !  my  heart  accords  thereto ; 
And  yet  a  thousand  times  it  answers,  no.  [Exeunt. 


ACT   II. 

SCENE  I.     Milan.     A  Boom  in  the  Duke's  Palace. 
Enter  Valentine  and  Speed. 

Speed.    Sir,  your  glove. 

Val.    Not  mine ;  my  gloves  are  on. 

Speed.    Why  then  this  may  be  yours,  for  this  is  but  one. 

Val.    Ha !  let  me  see :  ay,  give  it  me,  it's  mine :  — 
Sweet  ornament  that  decks  a  thing  divine ! 
Ah  Silvia!  Silvia! 

Speed.   Madam  Silvia !  madam  Silvia ! 

Val.    How  now,  sirrah  ? 

Speed.    She  is  not  within  hearing,  sir. 

Val.    Why,  sir,  who  bade  you  call  her  ? 

Speed.    Your  worship,  sir:  or  else  I  mistook. 

Val.    Well,  you'll  still  be  too  forward. 

Speed.    And  yet  I  Avas  last  chidden  for  being  too  slow. 

Val.    Go  to,  sir ;  tell  me,  do  you  know  madam  Silvia  ? 

Speed.    She  that  your  worship  loves  ? 

Val.    Why,  how  know  you  that  I  am  in  love  ? 

Speed.  Marry,  by  these  special  marks :  First,  you  have 
learned,  like  Sir  Proteus,  to  wreath  your  arms,  like  a  male- 
content  ;  to  relish  a  love-song,  like  a  robin-red  breast ;  to 
walk  alone,  like  one  that  had  the  pestilence ;  to  sigh,  like  a 
Bchool-boy  that  had  lost  his  A,  B,  C  ;  to  weep,  like  a  young 
wench  that  had  buried  her  grandam  ;  to  fast,  like  one  that 
takes  diet ;  to  watch,  like  one  that  fears  robbing ;  to  speak 
puling,  like  a  beggar  at  Hallowmas.  You  were  wont,  when 
you  laughed,  to  crow  like  a  cock  ;  when  you  walked,  to  walk 
like  one  of  the  lions ;  when  you  fasted,  it  Avas  presently  after 
dinner ;  when  you  looked  sadly,  it  was  for  want  of  money : 
and  now  you  are  metamorphosed  with  a  mistress,  that,  when 
I  look  on  you,  I  can  hardly  think  you  my  master. 


Act  IT.]      TTPO  GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  85 

Vnl.    Are  all  these  things  perceived  in  me  ? 

Speed.    They  are  all  perceived  without  you. 

Val.    Without  me  ?  they  cannot. 

Speed.  Without  you !  nay,  that's  certain,  for,  without 
you  were  so  simple,  none  else  would :  but  you  are  so  without 
these  follies,  that  these  follies  are  within  you,  and  shine 
through  you  like  the  water  in  an  urinal ;  that  not  an  eye, 
that  sees  you,  but  is  a  physician  to  comment  on  your  malady. 

Val.    But  tell  me,  dost  thou  know  my  lady  Silvia  ? 

Speed.    She  that  you  gaze  on  so,  as  she  sits  at  supper  ? 

Val.    Hast  thou  observed  that  ?  even  she  I  mean. 

Speed.    Why,  sir,  I  know  her  not. 

Val.  Dost  thou  know  her  by  my  gazing  on  her,  and  yet 
know'st  her  not  ? 

Speed.    Is  she  not  hard-favored,  sir  ? 

Val.    Not  so  fair,  boy,  as  well  favored. 

Speed.    Sir,  I  know  that  well  enough. 

Val.    What  dost  thou  know  ? 

Speed.    That  she  is  not  so  fair,  as  (of  you)  well-favored. 

Val.  I  mean,  that  her  beauty  is  exquisite,  but  her  favor 
infinite. 

Speed.  That's  because  the  one  is  painted,  and  the  other 
out  of  all  count. 

Val.    How  painted  ?  and  how  out  of  count  ? 

Speed.  jNIarry,  sir,  so  painted  to  make  her  fair,  that  no 
man  counts  of  her  beauty. 

Val.    How  esteem'st  thou  me  ?    I  account  of  her  beauty. 

Speed.    You  never  saw  her  since  she  was  deformed. 

Vol.    How  long  hath  she  been  deformed  ? 

Speed.    Ever  since  you  loved  her. 

Val.  I  have  loved  her  ever  since  I  saAv  her ;  and  still  I 
see  her  beautiful. 

Speed.  If  you  love  her,  you  cannot  see  her. 

Val.    Why? 

Speed.  Because  love  is  blind.  0,  that  you  had  mine 
eyes ;  or  your  own  eyes  had  the  lights  they  were  wont  to 
have,  when  you  chid  at  Sir  Proteus  for  going  ungartered ! 

Val.    What  should  I  see  then  ? 

Speed.  Your  own  present  folly,  and  her  passing  deformity : 
for  he,  being  in  love,  could  not  see  to  garter  his  hose ;  and 
you,  being  in  love,  cannot  see  to  put  on  your  hose. 

Val.  Belike,  boy,  then  you  are  in  love ;  for  last  morning 
you  could  not  see  to  wipe  mj?  shoes. 

Speed.  True,  sir ;  I  was  in  love  with  my  bed :  I  thank 
you,  you  swinged  me  for  my  love,  which  makes  me  the  bolder 
to  chide  you  for  yours. 


86  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  YERONA.      [Act  II 

Val.    In  conclusion,  I  stand  affected  to  her. 

Speed.   I  would  you  were  set,  so,  your  affection  would  cease. 

Val.    Last  niglit  she  enjoined  me  to  write  some  lines  to 
one  she  loves. 

Speed.    And  have  you? 

Val.    I  have. 

Speed.    Are  they  not  lamely  writ  ? 

Val.    ISo,  boy,  but  as  well  as  I  can  do  them :  — 
Peace,  here  she  comes. 

U7iter  Silvia. 

Speed.    0  excellent  motion  !     0  exceeding  puppet !  now 
will  he  interpret  to  her. 

Val.    Madam  and  mistress,  a  thousand  good-morrows. 

Speed.    0,  'give   you  good  even !   here's   a   million   of 
manners.  [^Aside. 

Sil.    Sir  Valentine  and  servant,  to  you  two  thousand. 

Speed.  He  should  give  her  interest ;  and  she  gives  it  him. 

Val.    As  you  enjoined  me,  I  have  Avrit  your  letter 
Unto  the  secret,  nameless  friend  of  yours ; 
Which  I  was  much  unwilling  to  proceed  in, 
But  for  my  duty  to  your  ladyship. 

Sil.    I  thank  you,  gentle  servant :   'tis  very  clerkly  done. 

Val.    Now  trust  me,  madam,  it  came  hardly  off; 
For,  being  ignorant  to  whom  it  goes, 
I  writ  at  random  very  doubtfully. 

Sil.    Perchance  you  think  too  much  of  so  much  pains  ? 

Val.    No,  madam ;   so  it  stead  you,  I  will  write, 
Please  you  command,  a  thousand  times  as  much : 
And  yet, — 

Sil.    A  pretty  period !     Well,  I  guess  the  sequel ; 
And  yet  I  will  not  name  it: — and  yet  I  care  not; — 
And  yet  take  this  again;  —  and  yet  I  thank  you; 
Meaning  henceforth  to  trouble  you  no  more. 

Speed.  And  yet  you  will ;  and  yet  another  yet.     [Aside. 

Val.    What  means  your  ladyship  ?  do  you  not  like  it  ? 

Sil.    Yes,  yes ;   the  lines  are  very  quaintly  writ : 
But  smce  unwillingly,  take  them  again ; 
Nay,  take  them. 

Val.    Madam,  they  are  for  you. 

Sil.    Ay,  ay ;  you  writ  them,  sir,  at  my  request ; 
But  I  will  none  of  them ;  they  are  for  you : 
I  would  have  had  them  writ  more  movingly. 

Val.    Please  you,  I'll  write  your  ladyship  another. 

Sil.    And,  when  it's  writ,  for  my  sake  read  it  over: 
And,  if  it  please  you,  so ;  if  not,  why,  so. 


Act  II]      TWO   GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  87 

Val.    If  it  please  me,  madam !  what  then  ? 

Sil.    Why,  if  it  please  you,  take  it  for  your  labor; 
And  so,  good-morrow,  servant.  [^Uxit  Silvia. 

Speed.    0  jest  unseen,  inscrutable,  invisible. 
As  a  nose  on  a  man's  face,  or  a  weathercock  on  a  steeple ! 
My  master  sues  to  her ;   and  she  hath  taught  her  suitor, 
He  being  her  pupil,  to  become  her  tutor. 
0  excellent  device !  was  there  ever  heard  a  better  ? 
That  my  master,  being  scribe,  to  himself  should  write  the 
letter  ? 

Val.  How  now,  sir?  what  are  you  reasoning  with  yourself? 

Speed.  Nay,  I  was  rhyming ;  'tis  you  that  have  the  reason. 

Val.    To  do  what? 

Speed.    To  be  a  spokesman  from  madam  Silvia. 

Val.    To  whom  ? 

Speed.    To  yourself:  why,  she  wooes  you  by  a  figure. 

Val.    What  figure  ? 

Speed.    By  a  letter,  I  should  say. 

Val.    Why,  she  hath  not  writ  to  me  ? 

Speed.  What  need  she,  when  she  hath  made  you  write  to 
yourself?     Why,  do  you  not  perceive  the  jest  ? 

Val,    No,  believe  me. 

Speed.  No  believing  you  indeed,  sir :  But  did  you  per- 
ceive her  earnest  ? 

Val.    She  gave  me  none,  except  an  angry  word. 

Speed.    Why,  she  hath  given  you  a  letter. 

Val.    That's  the  letter  I  writ  to  her  friend. 

Speed.  And  that  letter  hath  she  delivered,  and  there  an  end. 

Val.    I  would,  it  were  no  worse. 

Speed.    I'll  warrant  you,  'tis  as  well : 

For  often  have  you  writ  to  her ;  and  she,  in  modestly 
Or  else  for  ivant  of  idle  time,  could  not  again  reply; 
Or  fearing  else  some  messenger,  that  might  her  mind  discover. 
Herself  hath  taught  her  love  himself  to  write  unto  her  lover. 

All  this  I  speak  in  print ;  for  in  print  I  found  it. — 
Why  muse  you,  sir  ?  'tis  dinner  time. 

Val.    I  have  dined. 

Speed.  Ay,  but  hearken,  sir :  though  the  chameleon  Love 
can  feed  on  the  air,  I  am  one  that  am  nourislied  by  my 
victuals,  and  would  fain  have  meat:  0,  be  not  like  your 
mietress ;  be  moved,  be  moved.  \^Exeunt. 


88  T^O   GENTLE3IEX  OF  YERONA.      [Act  n 

SCENE  n.     Verona.     A  Room  in  Julia's  Howe. 
Enter  Proteus  and  Julia. 

Pro.    Ilave  patience,  gentle  Julia. 

Jul.    I  must,  where  is  no  remedy. 

Pro.    When  possibly  I  can,  I  will  return. 

Jul.    If  you  turn  not,  you  will  return  the  sooner: 
Keep  this  remembrance  for  thy  Julia's  sake. 

[^Criving  a  ring 

Pro.  "Why  then  we'll  make  exchange ;  here,  take  you  this. 

Jul.    And  seal  the  bargain  with  a  holy  kiss. 

Pro.    Here  is  my  hand  for  my  true  constancy ; 
And  when  that  hour  o'erslips  me  in  the  day, 
Wherein  I  sigh  not,  Julia,  for  thy  sake» 
The  next  ensuing  hour  some  foul  mischance 
Torment  me  for  my  love's  forgetfulness  ! 
My  father  stays  my  coming :  answer  not  : 
The  tide  is  now :  nay,  not  the  tide  of  tears ; 
That  tide  wiU  stay  me  longer  than  I  should; 

\^Exit  Julia. 
Julia,  farewell. — What !  gone  without  a  word ! 
Ay,  so  true  love  should  do :  it  cannot  speak ; 
For  truth  hath  better  deeds  than  words  to  grace  it. 

Enter  Panthixo. 

Pant.    Sir  Proteus,  you  are  staid  for. 
Pro.    Go ;  I  come,  I  come  :  — 
Alas  !  this  parting  strikes  poor  lovers  dumb.        [Exeunt. 

SCENE  ni.     Ttce  same.     A  Street. 
Enter  Launce,  leading  a  dog. 

Laun.  Nay,  'twill  be  this  hour  ere  I  have  done  weeping, 
all  the  kind  of  the  Launces  have  this  very  fault ;  I  have 
received  my  proportion,  like  the  prodigious  son,  and  am 
going  with  Sir  Proteus  to  the  Imperial's  couit.  I  think, 
Crab  my  dog  be  the  sourest-natured  dog  that  lives  :  my 
mother  weeping,  my  father  wailing,  my  sister  crying,  our 
maid  howling,  our  cat  wringing  her  hands,  and  all  our  house 
in  a  great  perplexity,  yet  did  not  this  cruel-hearted  cur  shed 
one  tear :  he  is  a  stone,  a  very  pebble  stone,  and  has  no 
more  pity  in  him  than  a  dog ;  a  Jew  would  have  wept  to 
have  seen  our  parting.  Why,  my  grandam,  having  no  eyes, 
look  you,  wept  herself  blind  at  my  parting.  Nay,  111  show 
you  the  manner  of  it :  This  shoe  is  my  father :  —  no,  this 
left  shoe  is  my  father ;  —  no,  no,  this  left  shoe  is  my  mother ; 


Act  II.]      TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  YERONA.  89 

—  nay,  that  cannot  be  so  neither ;  yes,  it  is  so,  it  is  so ;  it 
hath  the  worser  sole :  This  shoe,  with  the  hole  in  it,  is  my 
mother  ;  and  this  my  father :  A  vengeance  on't !  there  'tis : 
now,  sir,  this  staiF  is  my  sister ;  for,  look  you,  she  is  as 
white  as  a  lily,  and  as  small  as  a  wand :  this  hat  is  Nan,  our 
maid ;  I  am  the  dog :  —  no,  the  dog  is  himself,  and  I  am 
the  dog;  —  oh,  the  dog  is  me,  and  I  am  myself:  Ay,  so,  so. 
Now  come  I  to  my  father;  Father,  your  blessing;  now 
should  not  the  shoe  speak  a  word  for  weeping ;  now  should 
I  kiss  my  father ;  well,  he  weeps  on  :  —  now  come  I  to  my 
mother,  (0,  that  she  could  speak  now !)  like  a  wood  woman ; 
' —  well,  I  kiss  her  ;  —  why,  there  'tis ;  here's  my  mother's 
breath  up  and  down :  now  come  I  to  my  sister ;  mark  the 
moan  she  makes :  now  the  dog  all  this  while  sheds  not  a 
tear,  nor  speaks  a  word ;  but  see  how  I  lay  the  dust  with 
my  tears. 

Enter  Panthino. 

Pan.  Launce,  away,  away,  aboard ;  thy  master  is  shipped, 
and  thou  art  to  post  after  with  oars.  What's  the  matter  ? 
why  weepest  thou,  man  ?  Away,  ass ;  you  will  lose  the  tide, 
if  you  tarry  any  longer. 

Laun.  It  is  no  matter  if  the  ty'd  were  lost;  for  it  is  the 
unkindest  ty'd  that  ever  any  man  ty'd. 

Pan.    What's  the  unkindest  tide  ? 

Laun.    Why,  he  that's  ty'd  here ;  Crab,  my  dog. 

Pan.  Tut,  man,  I  mean  thou'lt  lose  the  flood ;  and,  in 
losing  the  flood,  lose  thy  voyage ;  and,  in  losing  thy  voyage, 
lose  thy  master ;  and,  in  losing  thy  master,  lose  thy  service ; 
and  in  losing  thy  service,  —  Why  dost  thou  stop  my  mouth  ? 

Laun.    For  fear  thou  should'st  lose  thy  tongue. 

Pan.    Where  should  I  lose  my  tongue  ? 

Laun.    In  thy  tale. 

Pan.    In  thy  tail? 

Laun.  Lose  the  tide,  and  the  voyage,  and  the  master, 
and  the  service :  And  the  tide !  —  Why,  man,  if  the  river 
were  dry,  I  am  able  to  fill  it  with  my  tears ;  if  the  wind 
ivere  down,  I  could  drive  the  boat  with  my  sighs. 

Pan.    Come,  come  away,  man ;  I  was  sent  to  call  thee. 

Laun.    Sir,  call  me  what  thou  darest. 

Pan.    Wilt  thou  go? 

Laun.    Well,  I  will  go. 


90  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.      [Act  D 

SCENE  IV.     Milan.     A  Boom  in  the  Duke's  Palace. 
Enter  Valentine,  Silvia,  Thurio,  and  Speed. 

Sil.    Servant  — 

Val.    Mistress? 

Speed.    Master,  Sir  Thurio  frowns  on  you. 

Val.   Ay,  boy,  it's  for  love. 

Speed.    Not  of  you. 

Val.    Of  my  mistress  then. 

Speed.    'Twere  good  you  knocked  him. 

Sil.    Servant,  you  are  sad. 

Val.    Indeed,  madam,  I  seem  so. 

Thu.    Seem  you  that  you  are  not  ? 

Val.    Haply  I  do. 

Thu.    So  do  counterfeits. 

Val.    So  do  you. 

Thu.    What  seem  I,  that  I  am  not? 

Val.    Wise. 

Thu.    What  instance  of  the  contrary? 

Val.    Your  folly. 

Thu.    And  how  quote  you  my  folly  ? 

Val.    I  quote  it  in  your  jerkin. 

Thu.    My  jerkin  is  a  doublet. 

Val.    W^ell,  then,  I'll  double  your  folly. 

Thu.    How? 

Sil.    What,  angry.  Sir  Thurio  ?  do  you  change  colour  ? 

Val.    Give  him  leave,  madam  ;  he  is  a  kind  of  chameleon. 

Thu.  That  hath  more  mind  to  feed  on  your  blood,  than 
live  in  your  air. 

Val.    You  have  said,  sir. 

Thu.    Ay,  sir,  and  done  too,  for  this  time. 

Val.    I  know  it  well,  sir  ;  you  always  end  ere  you  begin. 

Sil.  A  fine  volley  of  words,  gentlemen,  and  quickly  shot-off. 

Val.    'Tis  indeed,  madam ;  we  thank  the  giver. 

Sil.   Who  is  that,  servant  ? 

Val.  Yourself,  sweet  lady ;  for  you  gave  the  fire.  Sir 
Thurio  borrows  his  wit  from  your  ladyship's  looks,  and 
spends  what  he  borrows,  kindly  in  your  company. 

Thu.  Sir,  if  you  spend  word  for  word  with  me,  I  shall 
make  your  wit  bankrupt. 

Val.  I  know  it  well,  sir :  you  have  an  exchequer  of 
words,  and,  I  think,  no  other  treasure  to  give  your  follow- 
ers ;  for  it  appears  by  their  bare  liveries,  that  they  live  by 
your  bare  words. 

Sil.   No  more,  gentlemen,  no  more ;  here  comes  my  father. 


Act  XL]      TWO  GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  91 

Enter  Duke. 

Dxike.    Now,  daughter  Silvia,  you  are  hard  beset. 
Sir  Yalentine,  your  father's  in  good  health : 
What  say  you  to  a  letter  from  your  friends 
Of  much  good  news  ? 

Vol.    My  lord,  I  will  be  thankful 
To  any  happy  messenger  from  thence. 

Duke.    Know  you  Don  Antonio,  your  countryman? 
Val.   Aj,  my  good  lord,  I  know  the  gentleman 
To  be  of  Avorth,  and  worthy  estimation. 
And  not  without  desert  so  well  reputed. 

Duke.    Hath  he  not  a  son  ? 

Val.    Ay,  my  good  lord;  a  son,  that  well  deserves 
The  honor  and  regard  of  such  a  father. 

Duke.    You  know  him  well  ? 

Val.    I  knew  him  as  myself;  for  from  our  infancy 
We  have  conversed,  and  spent  our  hours  together : 
And  though  myself  have  been  an  idle  truant, 
Omitting  the  sweet  benefit  of  time. 
To  clothe  mine  age  with  angel-like  perfection ; 
Yet  hath  Sir  Proteus,  for  that's  his  name, 
Made  use  and  fair  advantage  of  his  days ; 
His  years  but  young,  but  his  experience  old ; 
His  head  unmellowed,  but  his  judgment  ripe ; 
And,  in  a  word,  (for  far  behind  his  worth 
Come  all  the  praises  that  I  now  bestow,) 
He  is  complete  in  feature,  and  in  mind, 
With  all  good  grace  to  grace  a  gentleman. 

Duke.    Beshrew  me,  sir,  but,  if  he  make  this  good, 
He  is  as  worthy  for  an  empress'  love. 
As  meet  to  be  an  emperor's  counsellor. 
Well,  sir ;  this  gentleman  is  come  to  me. 
With  commendation  from  great  potentates ; 
And  here  he  means  to  spend  his  time  a  while: 
I  think,  't  is  no  unwelcome  news  to  you. 

Val.    Should  I  have  wished  a  thing,  it  had  been  he. 

Duke.    Welcome  him  then  according  to  his  worth. 
Silvia,  I  speak  to  you ;  and  you,  Sir  Thurio : — 
For  Yalentine,  I  need  not  cite  him  to  it : 
I'll  send  him  hither  to  you  presently.  \_Uxit  DuKB 

Val.    This  is  the  gentleman,  I  tokl  your  ladyship, 
Had  come  along  with  me,  but  that  his  mistress 
Did  hold  his  ejcs  locked  in  her  crystal  looks. 

tSil.    Belike,  that  now  she  hath  enfranchised  them 
Upon  some  other  pawn  for  fealty. 


b'i  TWO   GENTLEMEN    OF  VERONA.      [Act  11. 

Val.   Nay,  sure,  I  think,  she  hokls  them  prisoners  still. 

tSil.    Nay,  then  he  should  he  blind  ;   and,  being  blind, 
How  could  he  see  his  way  to  seek  out  you? 

Val.    Why,  lady,  love  hath  twenty  pair  of  eyes. 

Thu.    They  say,  that  love  hath  not  an  eye  at  all. 

Val.    To  see  such  lovers,   Thurio,  as  yourself; 
Upon  a  homely  object  love  can  wink. 

Hotter  Proteus. 

Sil.    Have  done,  have  done ;  here  comes  the  gentleman. 

Val.   W^elcome,  dear  Proteus  !  —  Mistress,  I  beseech  you, 
Confirm  his  welcome  with  some  special  favor. 

Sil.    His  worth  is  warrant  for  his  welcome  hither, 
If  this  be  he  you  oft  have  wished  to  hear  from. 

Val.   Mistress,  it  is  :    sweet  lady,  entertain  him 
To  be  my  fellow-servant  to  your  ladyship. 

Sil.     Too  low  a  mistress  for  so  high  a  servant. 

J^ro.    Not  so,  sweet  lady  ;    but  too  mean  a  servant 
To  have  a  look  of  such  a  Avorthy  mistress. 

Val.    Leave  off  discourse  of  disability :  — 
Sweet  lady,  entertain  him  for  your  servant. 

I*ro.    My  duty  will  I  boast  of,  nothing  else. 

Sil.    And  duty  never  yet  did  want  his  meed  ; 
Servant,  you  are  welcome  to  a  worthless  mistress. 

Pro.    I'll  die  on  him  that  says  so,  but  yourself. 

Sil.    That  you  are  welcome  ? 

Pro.  No  ;    that  you  are  worthless. 

Enter  Servant. 

Ser.    Madam,  my  lord  your  father  would  speak  with  you. 

Sil.    I'll  wait  upon  his  pleasure.  \_Exit  Servant. 

Come,   Sir  Thurio, 
Go  with  me  :  —  Once  more,  new  servant,  welcome : 
I'll  leave  you  to  confer  of  home  affairs ; 
When  you  have  done,  we  look  to  hear  from  you. 

Pro.    We'll  both  attend  upon  your  ladyship. 

[Exemit  Silvia,  Thurio,  and  Speed. 

Val.    Now,  tell  me,  how  do  all  from  whence  you  came  ? 

Pro.    Your  friends  are  well,  and  have  them  much  com- 
mended. 

Val.    And  how  do  yours  ? 

Pro.    I  left  them  all  in  health. 

Val.    How  does  your  lady?  and  how  thrives  your  lovev 

Pro.   My  tales  of  love  were  wont  to  weary  you; 
T  know  you  joy  not  in  a  love-discourse. 

Val.    Ay,  Proteus,  but  that  life  is  altered  now: 


Act  II.]       TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  93 

I  have  done  penance  for  contemning  love ; 

Whose  high  imperious  thoughts  have  punished  me 

With  bitter  fasts,  with  penitential  groans, 

With  nightly  tears,  and  daily  heart-sore  sighs ; 

For,  in  revenge  of  my  contempt  of  love. 

Love  hath  chased  sleep  from  my  enthralled  eyes. 

And  made  them  watchers  of  mine  own  heart's  sorrow. 

0,  gentle  Proteus,  love's  a  mighty  lord ; 

And  hath  so  humbled  me,  as,  I  confess, 

There  is  no  wo  to  his  correction. 

Nor,  to  his  service,  no  such  joy  on  earth  I 

Now,  no  discourse,  except  it  be  of  love : 

Now  can  I  break  my  fast,  dine,  sup,  and  sleep, 

Upon  the  very  naked  name  of  love. 

Pi'o.    Enough ;   I  read  your  fortune  in  your  eye  : 
Was  this  the  idol  that  you  worship  so  ? 

Val.   Even  she  ;    and  is  she  not  a  heavenly  saint  ? 

Pro.    No  ;    but  she's  an  earthly  paragon. 

Val.    Call  her  divine. 

Pro.    I  will  not  flatter  her. 

Val.    0,  flatter  me ;   for  love  delights  in  praises. 

Pro.    When  I  was  sick,  you  gave  me  bitter  pills; 
And  I  must  minister  the  like  to  you. 

Val.    Then  speak  the  truth  by  her  ;    if  not  divine, 
Yet  let  her  be  a  principality. 
Sovereign  to  all  the  creatures  on  the  earth. 

Pro.    Except  my  mistress. 

Val.    Sweet,  except  not  any. 
Except  thou  wilt  except  against  my  love. 

Pro.    Have  I  not  reason  to  prefer  mine  own? 

Val.    And  I  will  help  thee  to  prefer  her  too : 
She  shall  be  dignified  with  this  high  honor, — 
To  bear  my  lady's  train  ;   lest  the  base  earth 
Should  from  her  vesture  chance  to  steal  a  kiss, 
And,  of  so  great  a  favor  growing  proud, 
Disdain  to  root  the  summer-swelling  flower, 
And  make  rough  winter  everlastingly. 

Pro.    Why,  Valentine,  what  braggardism  is  this? 

Val.    Pardon  me,  Proteus  :    all  I  can,  is  nothing 
To  her,  whose  worth  makes  other  worthies  nothing ; 
She  is  alone. 

Pro.    Then  let  her  alone. 

Val.    Not  for  the  world :   why,  man,  she  is  mine  own  , 
And  I  as  rich  in  having  such  a  jewel. 
As  twenty  seas,  if  all  their  sand  were  pearl, 
The  water  nectar,  and  the  rocks  pure  gold. 


94  TWO  GENTLEME:?^  of  VERONA.        [Act  U 

Forgive  me,  that  I  do  not  dream  on  thee, 
Because  thou  seest  me  dote  upon  my  love. 
My  foolish  rival,  that  her  father  likes, 
Only  for  his  possessions  are  so  huge. 
Is  gone  "with  her  along  ;    and  I  must  after, 
For  love,  thou  know'st,  is  full  of  jealousy. 

Pro.    But  she  loves  you  ? 

Vol.  Ay,  and  we  are  betrothed ; 

Nay,  more,  our  marriage  hour, 
With  all  the  cunning  manner  of  our  flight, 
Determined  of:    how  I  must  climb  her  window; 
The  ladder  made  of  cords  :    and  all  the  means 
Plotted  ;    and  'greed  on,  for  my  happiness. 
Good  Proteus,  go  with  me  to  my  chamber, 
In  these  affairs  to  aid  me  with  thy  counsel. 

Pro.    Go  on  before  ;    I  shall  inquire  you  forth : 
I  must  unto  the  road,  to  disembark 
Some  necessaries  that  I  needs  must  use ; 
And  then  I'll  presently  attend  you. 

Val.    Will  you  make  haste  ? 

Pro.   I  will.—  [Exit  Val. 

Even  as  one  heat  another  heat  expels, 
Or  as  one  nail  by  strength  drives  out  another, 
So  the  remembrance  of  my  former  love 
Is  by  a  newer  object  quite  forgotten. 
Is  it  her  mien,  or  Valentinus'  praise, 
Her  true  perfection,  or  my  false  transgression, 
That  makes  me,  reasonless,  to  reason  thus  ? 
She's  fair  ;    and  so  is  Julia,  that  I  love ;  — 
That  I  did  love,  for  now  my  love  is  thawed; 
Which,  like  a  waxen  image,  'gainst  a  fire, 
Bears  no  impression  of  the  thing  it  was. 
Methinks,  my  zeal  to  Valentine  is  cold  ; 
And  that  I  love  him  not,  as  I  was  wont : 
0  !    but  I  love  his  lady,  too,  too  much ; 
And  +hat's  the  reason  I  love  him  so  little. 
How  shall  I  dote  on  her  with  more  advice, 
That  thus  without  advice  begin  to  love  her  ? 
'Tis  but  her  picture  I  have  yet  beheld, 
And  that  hath  dazzled  my  reason's  light, 
But  when  I  look  on  her  perfections. 
There  is  no  reasou  but  I  shall  be  blind. 
If  I  can  check  my  erring  love,  I  will ; 
If  not,  to  compass  her  I'll  use  my  skill.  [Exit 


AotIL]      two   gentlemen   of  VERONA.  95 

SCENE  V.     The  Same.     A  Street. 
Enter  Speed  and  Launce. 

Speed.    Launce !  by  mine  honesty,  welcome  to  Milan. 

Laun.  Forswear  not  thyself,  sweet  youth  ;  for  I  am  not 
welcome.  I  reckon  this  always  —  that  a  man  is  never  un- 
done, till  he  be  hanged ;  nor  never  welcome  to  a  place,  till 
some  certain  shot  be  paid,  and  the  hostess  say,  welcome. 

Speed.  Come  on,  you  mad-cap,  I'll  to  the  ale-house  with 
you  presently ;  where,  for  one  shot  of  five  pence  thou  shalt 
have  five  thousand  welcomes.  But,  sirrah,  how  did  thy 
master  part  with  madam  Julia  ? 

Laun.  INIarry,  after  they  closed  in  earnest,  they  parted 
very  fairly  in  jest. 

Speed.    But  shall  she  marry  him  ? 

Laun.   No. 

Speed.    How  then  ?  shall  he  marry  her  ? 

Laun.    No,  neither. 

Speed.    What,  are  they  broken  ? 

Laun.    No,  they  are  both  as  Avhole  as  a  fish. 

Speed.    Why  then,  how  stands  the  matter  with  them  ? 

Laun.  Marry,  thus ;  when  it  stands  well  with  him,  it 
stands  well  with  her. 

Speed.    What  an  ass  art  thou !   I  understand  thee  not. 

Laun.  What  a  block  art  thou,  that  thou  canst  not  ?  My 
staff  understands  me. 

Speed.    What  thou  say'st? 

Laun.  Ay,  and  what  I  do  too :  look  thee  I'll  but  lean, 
and  my  staff  understands  me. 

Speed.    It  stands  under  thee,  indeed. 

Laun.    Why,  stand  under  and  understand  is  all  one. 

Speed.    But  tell  me  true,  will't  be  a  match  ? 

Laun.  Ask  my  dog :  if  he  say,  ay,  it  will ;  if  he  say, 
no,  it  will ;  if  he  shake  his  tail,  and  say  nothing,  it  will. 

Speed.    The  conclusion  is  then,  that  it  will. 

Laun.  Thou  shalt  never  get  such  a  secret  from  me,  but 
by  a  parable. 

Speed.  'Tis  well  that  I  get  it  so.  But,  Launce,  how 
say'st  thou,  that  my  master  has  become  a  notable  lover  ? 

Laun.    I  never  knew  him  otherwise. 

Speed.    Than  how  ? 

Laun.    A  notable  lubber,  as  thou  rcportest  him  to  be. 

Speed.    Why,  thou  whoreson  ass,  thou  mistakest  me. 

Laun.    Why,  fool,  I  meant  not  thee  ;  I  meant  thy  master. 

Speed.    I  tell  thee,  my  master  is  become  a  hot  lover. 


96  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.      [Act  IL 

Laun.  Why,  I  tell  thee,  I  care  not  though  he  burn  hlm- 
Belf  in  love.  If  thou  wilt  go  with  me  to  the  ale-house,  so ; 
if  not,  thou  art  a  Hebrew,  a  Jew,  and  not  worth  the  name 
of  a  Christian. 

Speed.    Why? 

Laun.  Because  thou  hast  not  so  much  charity  in  thee, 
as  to  go  to  the  ale  w^ith  a  Christian.     Wilt  thou  go  ? 

Speed.   At  thy  service.  [Exeunt, 

SCENE  VI.     The  same.     An  Apartment  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Proteus. 

Pro    To  leave  my  Julia,  shall  I  be  forsworn ; 
To  love  fair  Silvia,  shall  I  be  forsworn ; 
To  wrong  my  friend,  I  shall  be  much  forsworn ; 
lind  even  that  power,  which  gave  me  first  my  oath, 
Provokes  me  to  this  threefold  perjury. 
Love  bade  me  swear,  and  love  bids  me  forswear: 

0  sweet  suggesting  love,  if  thou  hast  sinned, 
Teach  me,  thy  tempted  subject,  to  excuse  it. 
At  first  I  did  adore  a  twinkling  star, 

But  now  I  worship  a  celestial  sun. 

Unheedful  vows  may  heedfully  be  broken : 

And  he  wants  wit,  that  wants  resolved  will 

To  learn  his  wit  to  exchange  the  bad  for  better. — 

.Fie,  fie,  unreverend  tongue !  to  call  her  bad, 

Whose  sovereignty  so  oft  thou  hast  preferred 

With  twenty  thousand  soul-confirming  oaths. 

1  cannot  leave  to  love,  and  yet  I  do ; 

But  there  I  leave  to  love,  where  I  should  love. 

Julia  I  lose,  and  V^alentine  I  lose : 

If  I  keep  them,  I  needs  must  lose  myself; 

If  I  lose  them,  thus  find  I  by  their  loss. 

For  Valentine,  myself;  for  Julia,  Silvia. 

I  to  myself  am  dearer  than  a  friend ; 

For  love  is  still  most  precious  in  itself: 

And  Silvia,  witness  heaven,  that  made  her  fair  I 

Shows  Julia  but  a  swarthy  Ethiope. 

I  will  forget  that  Julia  is  alive. 

Remembering  that  my  love  to  her  is  dead; 

And  Valentine  I'll  hold  an  enemy. 

Aiming  at  Silvia,  as  a  sweeter  friend. 

I  cannot  now  prove  constant  to  myself. 

Without  some  treachery  used  to  Valentine :  — 

This  night,  he  meaneth  with  a  corded  ladder 

To  climb  celestial  Silvia's  chamber-window. 


AotL]        two   gentlemen  of  VERONA.  97 

Myself  in  counsel,  his  competitor: 

Now  presently  I'll  give  lier  father  notice 

Of  their  disguising,  and  pretended  flight ; 

Who, —  all  enraged,  will  banish  Valentine  ; 

For  Thurio,  he  intends,  shall  wed  his  daughter: 

But,  Valentine  being  gone,  I'll  quickly  cross. 

By  some  sly  trick,  blunt  Thurio's  dull  proceeding. 

Love,  lend  me  wings  to  make  my  purpose  swift, 

As  thou  hast  lent  me  wit  to  plot  this  drift  I  [^Ezit 

SCENE  VII.     Verona.     A  room  in  Julia's  House. 
Enter  Julia  and  Lucetta. 

Jul.    Counsel,  Lucetta ;  gentle  girl,  assist  me ! 
And,  e'en  in  kind  love,  I  do  conjure  thee, — 
Who  art  the  table  wherein  all  my  thoughts 
Are  visibly  charactered  and  engraved, — 
To  lesson  me ;  and  tell  me  some  good  mean, 
How,  with  my  honor,  I  may  undertake 
A  journey  to  my  loving  Proteus. 

Lue.    Alas  !  the  way  is  wearisome  and  long. 

Jul.    A  true-devoted  pilgrim  is  not  weary 
To  measure  kingdoms  with  his  feeble  steps; 
Much  less  shall  she,  that  hath  love's  wings  to  fly: 
And  when  the  flight  is  made  to  one  so  dear. 
Of  such  divine  perfection,  as  Sir  Proteus. 

Luc.    Better  forbear,  till  Proteus  make  return. 

Jul.  0,  know'st  thou  not,  his  looks  are  my  soul's  food  ? 
Pity  the  dearth  that  I  have  pined  in, 
By  longing  for  that  food  so  long  a  time. 
Didst  thou  but  know  the  inly  touch  of  love. 
Thou  would'st  as  soon  go  kindle  fire  with  snow, 
As  seek  to  quench  the  fire  of  love  with  words. 

JjUc.    I  do  not  seek  to  quench  your  love's  hot  fire : 
But  qualify  the  fire's  extreme  rage, 
Lest  it  should  burn  above  the  bounds  of  reason. 

Jul.    The  more  thou  dam'st  it  up,  the  more  it  burns; 
The  current,  that  with  gentle  murmur  glides. 
Thou  know'st,  being  stopped,  impatiently  doth  rage; 
But,  when  his  fair  course  is  not  hindered. 
He  makes  sweet  music  with  th'  enamelled  stones, 
Giving  a  gentle  kiss  to  every  sedge 
He  overtaketh  in  his  pilgrimage; 
And  so  by  many  winding  nooks  he  strays, 
With  willing  sport  to  the  wild  ocean. 
Then  let  me  go,  and  hinder  not  my  course: 

Vol.  I.  —  7  i 


98  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA..       [Act  II 

I'll  be  as  patient  as  a  gentle  stream, 
And  make  a  pastime  of  each  weary  step, 
Till  the  last  step  have  brought  me  to  my  love; 
And  there  I'll  rest,  as,  after  much  turmoil, 
A  blessed  soul  doth  in  Elysium. 

Luc.    But  in  what  habit  will  you  go  along? 

Jul.    Not  like  a  woman  ;    for  I  would  prevent 
The  loose  encounters  of  lascivious  men : 
Gentle  Lucetta,  fit  me  with  such  weeds 
As  may  beseem  some  well-reputed  page. 

Luc.    Why  then  your  ladyship  must  cut  your  hair. 

Jul.    No,  girl ;    I'll  knit  it  up  in  silken  strings, 
With  twenty  odd-conceited  true-love  knots ; 
To  be  fantastic  may  become  a  youth 
Of  greater  time  than  I  shall  show  to  be. 

Luc.    What  fashion,  madam,  shall  I  make  your  breeches  ? 

Jul.    That  fits  as  well,  as  —  "tell  me,  good  my  lord. 
What  compass  will  you  wear  your  farthingale?" 
Why,  even  what  fashion  thou  best  lik'st,  Lucetta. 

Luc.  You  must  needs  have  them  with  a  cod-piece,  madam. 

Jul.    Out,  out,  Lucetta  ;    that  will  be  ill  favored. 

Luc.    A  round  hose,  madam,  now's  not  worth  a  pin, 
Unless  you  have  a  cod-piece  to  stick  pins  on. 

Jul.    Lucetta,  as  thou  lov'st  me,  let  me  have 
What  thou  think'st  meet,  and  is  most  mannerly  : 
But  tell  me,  wench,  how  will  the  world  repute  me. 
For  undertaking  so  unstaid  a  journey  ? 
I  fear  me,  it  will  make  me  scandalized. 

Luc.    If  you  think  so,  then  stay  at  home,  and  go  not. 

Jul.    Nay,  that  I  will  not. 

Luc.    Then  never  dream  on  infamy,  but  go. 
If  Proteus  like  your  journey,  when  you  come, 
No  matter  who's  displeased,  when  you  are  gone : 
I  fear  me,  he  will  scarce  be  pleased  withal, 

Jul.    That  is  the  least,  Lucetta,  of  my  fear : 
A  thousand  oaths,  an  ocean  of  his  tears. 
And  instances  of  infinite  of  love. 
Warrant  me  welcome  to  my  Proteus. 

Luc.    All  these  are  servants  to  deceitful  men. 

Jul.    Base  men,  that  use  them  to  so  base  efi'ect ! 
But  truer  stars  did  govern  Proteus'  birth  : 
His  words  are  bonds,  his  oaths  are  oracles ; 
His  love  sincere,  his  thoughts  immaculate ; 
His  tears,  pure  messengers  sent  from  his  heart ; 
His  heart  as  far  from  fraud,  as  heaven  from  earth. 

L'uc.    Pray  heaven,  he  prove  so,  when  you  come  to  him ! 


Act  III.]     TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF   VERONA.  99 

Jul.    Now,  as  thou  lov'st  me,  do  him  not  that  wrong, 
To  bear  a  hard  opinion  of  his  truth ; 
Only  deserve  my  love,  by  loving  him ; 
And  presently  go  with  me  to  my  chamber, 
To  take  a  note  of  what  I  stand  in  need  of, 
To  furnish  me  upon  my  longing  journey. 
All  that  is  mine  I  leave  at  thy  dispose. 
My  goods,  my  lands,  my  reputation ; 
Only,  in  lieu  thereof,  despatch  me  hence : 
Come,  answer  not,  but  to  it  presently ; 
I  am  impatient  of  my  tarriance.  \Exeunt. 


ACT    III. 

SCENE  I.     Milan.     An  Anteroom  in  the  Duke's  Palme. 
Enter  Duke,  Thurio,  and  Proteus. 

Duke.    Sir  Thurio,  give  us  leave,  I  pray,  awhile ; 
We  have  some  secrets  to  confer  about. 

\_Exit  Thurio. 
Now,  tell  me,  Proteus,  what's  your  will  with  me  ? 

Pro.    My  gracious  lord,  that  which  I  would  discover, 
The  law  of  friendship  bids  me  to  conceal : 
But,  when  I  call  to  mind  your  gracious  favors 
Done  to  me,  undeserving  as  I  am, 
My  duty  pricks  me  on  to  utter  that 
Which  else  no  worldly  good  should  draw  from  me. 
Know,  worthy  prince.   Sir  Valentine,  my  friend, 
This  night  intends  to  steal  away  your  daughter; 
Myself  am  one  made  privy  to  the  plot. 
I  know  you  have  determined  to  bestow  her 
On  Thurio,  whom  your  gentle  daughter  hates ; 
And  should  she  thus  be  stolen  away  from  you, 
It  would  be  much  vexation  to  your  age. 
Thus,  for  my  duty's  sake,  I  rather  chose 
To  cross  my  friend  in  his  intended  drift, 
Than,  by  concealing  it,  heap  on  your  head 
A  pack  of  sorrows,  which  would  press  you  down, 
Being  unprevented,  to  your  timeless  grave. 

Duke.    Proteus,  I  thank  thee  for  thine  honest  care, 
Which  to  requite,  command  me  while  I  live. 
This  love  of  theirs  myself  have  often  seen, 
Haply,  when  they  have  judged  me  fast  asleep ; 
And  oftentimes  have  purposed  to  forbid 


100  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  YERONA.     [Act  III 

Sir  Valentine  her  company,  and  my  court: 
But,  fearing  lest  my  jealous  aim  might  err, 
And  so  unworthily  disgrace  the  man, 
(A  rashness  that  I  ever  yet  have  shunned,) 
I  gave  him  gentle  looks ;  thereby  to  find 
That  -which  thyself  hast  now  disclosed  to  me. 
And,  that  thou  may'st  perceive  my  fear  of  this, 
Knowing  that  tender  youth  is  soon  suggested, 
I  nightly  lodge  her  in  an  upper  tower. 
The  key  whereof  myself  have  ever  kept; 
And  thence  she  cannot  be  conveyed  away. 

Pro.    Know,  noble  lord,  they  have  devised  a  mean 
How  he  her  chamber-window  will  ascend. 
And  with  a  corded  ladder  fetch  her  down ; 
For  which  the  youthful  lover  now  is  gone. 
And  this  way  comes  he  with  it  presently ; 
Wheie,  if  it  please  you,  you  may  intercept  bim. 
But,  good  my  lord,  do  it  so  cunningly, 
That  my  discovery  be  not  aimed  at ; 
For  love  of  you,  not  hate  unto  my  friend. 
Hath  made  me  publisher  of  this  pretence. 

Dulce.    Upon  mine  honor,  he  shall  never  know 
That  I  had  any  light  from  thee  of  this. 

Pro.    Adieu,  my  lord;  Sir  Valentine  is  coming. 

[Exit 
Enter  Valentine. 

Duke.    Sir  Valentine,  whither  away  so  fast  ? 

Val.    Please  it  your  grace,  there  is  a  messenger 
That  stays  to  bear  my  letters  to  my  friends. 
And  I  am  going  to  deliver  them. 

Duke.    Be  they  of  much  import  ? 

Val.    The  tenor  of  them  doth  but  signify 
My  health,  and  happy  being  at  your  court. 

Duke.    Nay,  then  no  matter ;  stay  with  me  a  while ; 
I  am  to  break  with  thee  of  some  affairs. 
That  touch  me  near,  Avherein  thou  must  be  secret. 
*Tis  not  unknown  to  thee,  that  I  have  sought 
To  match  my  friend.   Sir  Thurio,  to  my  daughter. 

Val.    I  know  it  well,  my  lord ;  and,  sure,  the  match 
Were  rich  and  honorable ;  besides,  the  gentleman 
Is  full  of  virtue,  bounty,  worth,  and  qualities 
Beseeming  such  a  wife  as  your  fair  daughter : 
Cannot  your  grace  win  her  to  fancy  him  ? 

Duke.    No,  trust  me ;  she  is  peevish,  sullen,  froward, 
Proud,  disobedient,  stubborn,  lacking  duty: 


Act  in.]     TWO  GENTLE3IEX  OF  VERONA.  103 

Neither  regarding  that  she  is  my  child, 
Nor  fearing  me  as  if  I  were  her  father : 
And,  may  I  say  to  thee,  this  pride  of  hers, 
Upon  advice,  hath  drawn  my  love  from  her ; 
And  where  I  thought  the  remnant  of  mine  age 
Should  have  been  cherished  by  her  childlike  duty, 
I  now  am  full  resolved  to  take  a  wife, 
And  turn  her  out  to  who  will  take  her  in : 
Then  let  her  beauty  be  her  wedding-dower; 
For  me  and  my  possessions  she  esteems  not. 

Val.    What  would  your  grace  have  me  to  do  in  thiij  ? 

Duke.    There  is  a  lady,  sir,  in  Milan,  here. 
Whom  I  affect ;  but  she  is  nice,  and  coy. 
And  nought  esteems  my  aged  eloquence : 
Now,  therefore,  would  I  have  thee  to  my  tutor, 
(For  long  agone  I  have  forgot  to  court : 
Besides,  the  fashion  of  the  time  is  changed :) 
How,  and  which  way,  I  may  bestow  myself. 
To  be  regarded  in  her  sun-bright  eye. 

Val.    Win  her  with  gifts,  if  she  respect  not  words; 
Dumb  jewels  often,  in  their  silent  kind. 
More  than  quick  Avords,  do  move  a  woman's  mind. 

Duke.    But  she  did  scorn  a  present  that  I  sent  her. 

Val.  A  woman  sometimes  scorns  what  best  contents  her  • 
Send  her  another ;  never  give  her  o'er ; 
For  scorn  at  first  makes  after-love  the  more. 
If  she  do  frown,  'tis  not  in  hate  of  you. 
But  rather  to  beget  more  love  in  you  : 
If  she  do  chide,   'tis  not  to  have  you  gone; 
For  why,  the  fools  are  mad,  if  left  alone. 
Take  no  repulse,  whatever  she  doth  say : 
For,  get  you  gone,  she  doth  not  mean,  aioay: 
Flatter,  and  praise,  commend,  extol  their  graces ; 
Though  ne'er  so  black,  say,  they  have  angels'  faces. 
That  man  that  hath  a  tongue,  I  say,  is  no  man, 
If  with  his  tongue  he  cannot  win  a  woman. 

Duke   But  she  I  mean,  is  promised  by  her  frienda 
Unto  a  youthful  gentleman  of  worth ; 
And  kept  severely  from  resort  of  men, 
That  no  man  hath  access  by  day  to  her. 

Val.    Why  then  I  would  resort  to  her  by  night. 

Duke.  Ay,  but  the  doors  be  locked,  and  keys  kept  safe, 
That  no  man  hath  recourse  to  her  by  night. 

Val.    What  lets,  but  one  may  enter  at  her  window  ? 

Duke.    Her  chamber  is  aloft,  far  from  the  ground; 
And  built  so  shelvmg  that  one  cannot  climb  it 
Without  apparent  hazard  of  his  life. 
I* 


102  TT\  0  GP:NTLEMEN   of   VERONA.      [Act  IIL 

Vol.    Why  then,  a  ladder,  quaintly  made  of  cords, 
To  cast  up  with  a  pair  of  anchoring  hooks, 
Would  serve  to  scale  another  Hero's  tower, 
So  bold  Leander  Avould  adventure  it. 

Duke.    Now,  as  thou  art  a  gentleman  of  blood. 
Advise  me  Avhere  I  may  have  such  a  ladder. 

Val.    When  would  you  use  it  ?  pray,  sir,  tell  me  that. 

Duke.    This  very  night ;  for  love  is  like  a  child, 
That  longs  for  every  thing  that  he  can  come  by. 

Val.    By  seven  o'clock  I'll  get  you  such  a  ladder. 

Duke.    But,  hark  thee ;  I  will  go  to  her  alone ; 
How  shall  I  best  convey  the  ladder  thither  ? 

Val.    It  will  be  light,  my  lord,  that  you  may  bear  it 
Under  a  cloak  that  is  of  any  length. 

Duke.    A  cloak  as  long  as  thine  will  serve  the  turn  ? 

Val.    Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Duke.  Then  let  me  see  thy  cloak ; 

I'll  get  me  one  of  such  another  length. 

Val.    IVhy,  any  cloak  will  serve  the  turn,  my  lord. 

Duke.    How  shall  I  fashion  me  to  wear  a  cloak  ? — 
I  pray  thee,  let  me  feel  thy  cloak  upon  me. — 
What  letter  is  this  same?     What's  here? — To  Silvia! 
And  here  an  engine  fit  for  my  proceeding  ? 
I'll  be  so  bold  to  break  the  seal  for  once.  [Beads. 

My  thoughts  do  harbor  zvith  my  Silvia  nightly  ; 

And  slaves  they  are  to  me,  that  send  them  flying : 
0,  could  their  master  come  and  go  as  lightly, 

Himself  would  lodge  where  senseless  they  are  lying. 
My  herald  thoughts  in  thy  pure  bosom  rest  them ; 

Willie  I,  their  king,  that  thither  them  -imjjortune, 
Do  curse  the  grace  that  with  such  grace  hath  blessed  them^ 

Because  myself  do  want  my  servants'  fortune : 
I  curse  myself,  for  they  are  sent  by  me, 
That  they  should  harbor  where  their  lord  should  be. 

What's  here  ? 

Silvia,  this  night  I  will  enfranchise  thee ! 

'Tis  so ;  and  here's  the  ladder  for  the  purpose. — 
Why,  Phaeton  (for  thou  art  Merops'  son,) 
Wilt  thou  aspire  to  guide  the  heavenly  car, 
And  with  thy  daring  folly  burn  the  world? 
Wilt  thou  reach  stars  because  they  shine  on  thee  ? 
Go,  base  intruder !  over-weening  slave ! 
Bestow  thy  fawning  smiles  on  equal  mates ; 
And  think  my  patience,  more  than  thy  desert, 


Act  III.]     TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  103 

Is  privilege  for  thy  departure  hence : 

Thank  me  for  this,  more  than  for  all  the  favors 

Which,  all  too  much,  I  have  bestowed  on  thee. 

But  if  thou  linger  in  my  territories 

Longer  than  swiftest  expedition 

Will  give  thee  time  to  leave  our  royal  court, 

By  heaven,  my  wrath  shall  far  exceed  the  love 

I  ever  bore  my  daughter,  or  thyself. 

Be  gone,  I  will  not  hear  thy  vain  excuse ; 

But,  as  thou  lov'st  thy  life,  make  speed  from  hence, 

[Exit  DjKB 
Vol.    And  why  not  death,  rather  than  living  tormen. ? 
To  die,  is  to  be  banished  from  myself; 
And  Silvia  is  myself;  banished  from  her, 
Is  self  from  self ;  a  deadly  banishment ! 
What  light  is  light,  if  Silvia  be  not  seen? 
What  joy  is  joy,  if  Silvia  be  not  by  ? 
Unless  it  be  to  think  that  she  is  by, 
And  feed  upon  the  shadow  of  perfection : 
Except  I  be  by  Silvia  in  the  night, 
There  is  no  music  in  the  nightingale ; 
Unless  I  look  on  Silvia  in  the  day. 
There  is  no  day  for  me  to  look  upon : 
She  is  my  essence ;  and  I  leave  to  be, 
If  I  be  not  by  her  fair  influence 
Fostered,  illumined,   cherished,  kept  alive. 
I  fly  not  death,  to  fly  his  deadly  doom ; 
Tarry  I  here,  I  but  attend  on  death  ; 
But,  fly  I  hence,  I  fly  away  from  life. 

Enter  Proteus  and  Launce. 

Pro.    Run,  boy,  run,  run,  and  seek  him  out. 
Laun.    So-ho  !  so-ho  ! 
Pro.    What  seest  thou? 

Laun.    Him  Ave  go  to  find  !  there's  not  a  hair  on'e  head, 
but  'tis  a  Valentine. 
Pro.    Valentine  ? 
Val.   No. 

Pro.    AVho  then  ?  his  spirit  ? 
Fal.    Neither. 
Pro     What  then? 
Val.    Nothing. 

Laun.    Can  nothing  speak?  master,  shall  I  strike 
Pro.    Whom  would'st  thou  strike  ? 
Laun.    Nothing. 
Pro.    Villain,  forbear. 


104  TWO  GENTLEMEN   OF  VEEONA.     [Act  III 

Laun.    Why,  sir,  I'll  strike  nothing :  I  pray  you  — 

Pro.    Sirrah,  I  say,  forbear :  Friend  Valentine,  a  word. 

Val.    My  ears  are  stopped,  and  cannot  hear  good  news, 
So  much  of  bad  already  hath  possessed  them. 

Pro.    Then  in  dumb  silence  will  I  bury  mine, 
For  they  are  harsh,  untunable,  and  bad. 

Val.    Is  Silvia  dead  ? 

Pro.    No,  Valentine. 

Val.   No  Valentine,  indeed,  for  sacred  Silvia ! — 
Hath  she  forsworn  me  ? 

Pro.    No,  Valentine. 

Val.    No  Valentine,  if  Silvia  have  forsworn  me  !— 
What  is  your  news  ? 

Laun.  Sir,  there's  a  proclamation  that  you  are  vanished. 

Pro.    That  thou  art  banished,   0,  that's  the  news — 
From  hence,  from  Silvia,  and  from  me,  thy  friend. 

Val.    0,  I  have  fed  upon  this  wo  already, 
And  now  excess  of  it  will  make  me  surfeit. 
Loth  Silvia  know  that  I  am  banished? 

Pro.    Ay,  ay ;  and  she  hath  offered  to  the  doom, 
(Which,  unreversed,  stands  in  effectual  force,) 
A  sea  of  melting  pearl,  which  some  call  tears : 
Those  at  her  father's  churlish  feet  she  tendered ; 
With  them,  upon  her  knees,  her  humble  self; 
Wringing  her  hands,  whose  whiteness  so  became  them, 
As  if  but  now  they  waxed  pale  for  wo : 
But  neither  bended  knees,  pure  hands  held  up, 
Sad  sighs,  deep  groans,  nor  silver-shedding  tears, 
Could  penetrate  her  uncompassionate  sire ; 
But  Valentine,  if  he  be  ta'en,  must  die. 
Besides,  her  intercession  chafed  him  so. 
When  she  for  thy  repeal  was  suppliant. 
That  to  close  prison  he  commanded  her, 
Witli  many  bitter  threats  of  'biding  there. 

Val.    No  more ;  unless  the  next  word  that  thou  speak'si, 
Have  some  malignant  power  upon  my  life : 
If  so,  I  pray  thee,  breathe  it  in  mine  ear, 
As  ending  anthem  of  my  endless  tlolor. 

Pro,    Cease  to  lament  for  that  thou  can'st  not  help, 
And  study  help  for  that  which  thou  lament'st. 
Time  is  the  nurse  and  breeder  of  all  good. 
Here  if  thou  stay,  thou  canst  not  see  thy  love ; 
Besides,  thy  staying  will  abridge  thy  life. 
Hope  is  a  lover's  staff;  walk  hence  with  that, 
And  manage  it  against  despairing  thoughts. 
Thy  letters  may  be  here,  though  thou  art  hence ; 


Act  III.]     TTi'O   GENTLEMEN   OP  VERONA.  105 

Which,  being  writ  to  me,  shall  be  delivered 
Even  in  the  milk-white  bosom  of  thy  love. 
The  time  now  serves  not  to  expostulate : 
Come,  I'll  convey  thee  through  the  city  gate ; 
And,  ere  I  part  with  thee,  confer  at  large 
Of  all  that  may  concern  thy  love-affairs : 
As  thou  lov'st  Silvia,  though  not  for  thyself, 
Regard  thy  danger,  and  along  with  me. 

Val.    I  pray  thee,  Launce,  an  if  thou  seest  my  boy, 
Bid  him  make  haste,  and  meet  me  at  the  north  gate. 

Pro    Go,  sirrah,  find  him  out.     Come,  Valentine. 

Val.    0  my  dear  Silvia !  hapless  Valentine  ! 

[Exeunt  Valentine  and  Proteus. 

Laun.  I  am  but  a  fool,  look  you ;  and  yet  I  have  the  wit 
to  think,  m}'  master  is  a  kind  of  a  knave  :  but  that's  all  one, 
if  he  be  but  one  knave.  He  lives  not  now,  that  knows  me 
to  be  in  love :  yet  I  am  in  love ;  but  a  team  of  horse  shall 
not  pluck  that  from  me ;  nor  who  'tis  I  love,  and  yet  'tis  a 
woman:  but  what  woman,  I  will  not  tell  myself:  and  yet 
'tis  a  milk-maid:  yet  'tis  not  a  maid,  for  she  hath  had  gos- 
sips: yet  'tis  a  maid,  for  she  is  her  master's  maid,  and  serves 
for  wages.  She  hath  more  qualities  than  a  water-spaniel, 
— which  is  much  in  a  bare  Christian.  Here  is  the  cate-log 
[jpulling  out  a  paper]  of  her  condition.  Imprimis,  She  can 
fetch  and  carry.  Why,  a  horse  can  do  no  more ;  nay,  a 
horse  cannot  fetch,  but  only  carry ;  therefore  is  she  better 
than  a  jade.  Item,  She  can  milk  ;  look  you,  a  sweet  virtue 
in  a  maid  with  clean  hands. 

Enter  Speed. 

Speed.  How  now,  signior  Launce  ?  what  news  with  your 
mastership  ? 

Laun.    With  my  master's  ship  ?  why,  it  is  at  sea. 

Speed.  Well,  your  old  vice  still ;  mistake  the  word :  What 
news  then  in  your  paper  ? 

Laun.    The  blackest  news  that  ever  thou  heard'st. 

Speed.    Wliy,  man,  how  black  ? 

Laun.    Why,  as  black  as  ink. 

Speed.    Let  me  read  them. 

Laun.    Fie  on  thee,  jolt-head ;   thou  canst  not  read 

Speed.    Thou  liest,  I  can. 

Laun.    I  will  try  thee :  Tell  me  this ;  Who  begot  thee  ? 

Speed.    Marry,  the  son  of  my  grandfather. 

Laun.  0  illiterate  loiterer  !  it  was  the  son  of  thy  grand- 
mother :  this  proves  that  thou  canst  not  read. 

Speed,    Come,  fool,  come :   try  me  in  thy  paper 


106  TWO  GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.     [Act  111 

Laun.    There:  and  saint  Nicholas  be  tliy  speed! 

Speed.    Imprimis,  She  can  milk. 

Laun.    Ay,  that  she  can. 

Speed.    Iteir.,  She  brews  good  ale. 

Laun.    And  therefore  comes  the  proverb, — Blessing  of 
your  heart,  you  brew  good  ale. 

Speed.    Item,  She  can  sew. 

Laun.    That's  as  much  as  to  say,  can  she  so  ? 

Speed.    Item,  She  can  knit. 

Laun.  What  need  a  man  care  for  a  stock  with  a  wench, 
when  she  can  knit  him  a  stock. 

Speed.    Item,  She  can  wash  and  scour. 

Laun.  A  special  virtue ;  for  then  she  need  not  be  washed 
and  scoured. 

Speed.    Item,  She  can  spin. 

Laun.  Then  may  I  set  the  world  on  wheels,  when  she 
can  spin  for  her  living. 

Speed.    Item,  She  hath  many  nameless  virtues. 

Laun.  That's  as  much  as  to  say,  bastard  virtues ;  that, 
indeed,  know  not  their  fathers,  and  therefore  have  no  names. 

Speed.    Here  follow  her  vices. 

Laun.    Close  at  the  heels  of  her  virtues. 

Speed.  Item,  She  is  not  to  he  kissed  fasting,  in  respect 
of  her  breath. 

Laun.  Well,  that  fault  may  be  mended  with  a  breakfast : 
Read  on. 

Speed.    Item,  She  hath  a  stveet  mouth. 

Laun.    That  makes  amends  for  her  sour  breath. 

Speed.    Item,  She  doth  talk  in  her  sleep. 

Laun.    It's  no  matter  for  that,  so  she  sleep  not  in  her  talk. 

Speed.    Item,  She  is  slow  iti  words. 

Laun.  0  villain,  that  set  this  down  among  her  vices ! 
To  be  slow  in  words,  is  a  woman's  only  virtue :  I  pray 
thee,  out  with't;  and  place  it  for  her  chief  virtue. 

Speed.    Item,  She  is  proud. 

Laun.  Out  with  that  too  ;  it  was  Eve's  legacy,  and  cannot 
be  ta'en  from  her. 

Speed.    Item,  She  hath  no  teeth. 

Laun.    I  care  not  for  that  neither,  because  I  love  crusts. 

Speed.    Item,  She  is  curst. 

Laun.    Well,  the  best  is,  she  hath  no  teeth  to  bite. 

Speed.    Item,  She  will  often  praise  her  liquor. 

Laun.  If  her  liquor  be  good,  she  shall :  if  she  will  not, 
I  will ;   for  good  things  should  be  praised. 

Speed.    Item,  She  is  too  liberal. 

Laun.    Of  her  tongue  she  cannot ;  for  that's  writ  down 


Act  III.]     I\^0   GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  107 

she  is  slow  of :  of  her  purse  she  shall  not ;  for  that  I'll 
keep  shut :  now  of  another  thing  she  may  ;  and  that  cannot 
I  help.     Well,  proceed. 

Speed.  Item,  She  hath  more  hair  than  toit,  and  more 
faults  than  hairs,  and  more  wealth  than  faults. 

Laun.  Stop  there  ;  I'll  have  her :  she  was  mine,  and  not 
mine,  tAvice  or  thrice  in  that  last  article :  Rehearse  that 
once  more. 

Speed.    Item,  She  hath  more  hair  than  wit — 

Laun.  More  hair  than  wit, —  it  maybe;  I'll  prove  it; 
The  cover  of  the  salt  hides  the  salt,  and  therefore  it  is  more 
than  the  salt ;  the  hair  that  covers  the  Avit,  is  more  than  the 
wit ;  for  the  greater  hides  the  less.     What's  next  ? 

Speed.    And  more  faults  than  hairs — 

Laun.    That's  monstrous  :   0,  that  that  were  out ! 

Speed.    Ayid  7nore  tvealth  than  faults. 

Laun.  Why,  that  word  makes  the  faults  gracious.  Well, 
I'll  have  her :  and  if  it  be  a  match,  as  nothing  is  impossible, — 

Speed.    What  then  ? 

Laun.  Why,  then  will  I  tell  thee,  that  thy  master  stays 
for  thee  at  the  north  gate. 

Speed.    For  me  ? 

Laun.  For  thee  ?  ay ;  who  art  thou  ?  he  hath  staid  for 
a  better  man  than  thee. 

Speed.    And  must  I  go  to  him  ? 

Laun.  Thou  must  run  to  him,  for  thou  hast  staid  so  long, 
that  going  will  scarce  serve  the  turn. 

Speed.  Why  did'st  not  tell  me  sooner?  'pox  of  your  love- 
letters  ?  {^Exit. 

Laun.  Now  will  he  be  SAvinged  for  reading  my  letter : 
An  unmannerly  slave,  that  Avill  thrust  himself  into  secrets ! 
I'll  after,  to  rejoice  in  the  boy's  correction.  \Lxit. 

SCENE  II.      The  same.    A  Room  in  the  Duke's  Palace. 
Lntijr  Duke  and  Thurio;  Proteus  behind. 

Duke.  Sir  Thurio,  fear  not,  but  that  she  will  loA'e  you. 
Now  Valentine  is  banished  from  her  sight. 

Thu.    Since  his  exile  she  has  despised  me  most, 
ForsAvorn  my  company,  and  railed  at  me, 
That  I  am  desperate  of  obtaining  her. 

Luke.    This  weak  impress  of  love  is  as  a  figure 
Trenched  in  ice ;  Avhich  with  an  hour's  heat 
Dissolves  to  water,  and  doth  lose  his  form. 
A  little  time  will  melt  her  frozen  thoughts. 


108  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.    [Act  III. 

And  worthless  Valentino  shall  be  forgot. — 
How  now,   Sir  Proteus  ?  Is  your  countryman, 
•According  to  our  proclamation,  gone  ? 

Pro.    Gone,  my  good  lord. 

Duke.    My  daughter  takes  his  going  grievously. 

Pro.    A  little  time,  my  lord,  will  kill  that  grief. 

Duke.    So  I  believe ;   but  Thurio  thinks  not  so. — 
Proteus,  the  good  conceit  I  hold  of  thee, 
(For  thou  hast  shown  some  sign  of  good  desert,) 
Makes  me  the  better  to  confer  with  thee. 

Pro.    Longer  than  I  prove  loyal  to  your  grace, 
Let  me  not  live  to  look  upon  your  grace. 

Duke.    Thou  know'st,  how  willingly  I  w^ould  effect 
The  match  between  Sir  Thurio  and  my  daughter. 

Pro.    I  do,  my  lord. 

Duke.    And  also,   I  think,  thou  art  not  ignorant 
How  she  opposes  her  against  my  will. 

Pro.    She  did,  my  lord,  when  Valentine  was  here. 

Duke.    Ay,  and  perversely  she  persevers  so. 
What  might  we  do,  to  make  the  girl  forget 
The  love  of  Valentine,  and  love  Sir  Thurio  ? 

Pro.    The  best  Avay  is  to  slander  Valentine 
With  falsehood,  cowardice,  and  poor  descent ; 
Three  things  that  w^omen  highly  hold  in  hate. 

Duke.    Ay,  but  she'll  think  that  it  is  spoke  in  hate. 

Pro.    Ay,  if  his  enemy  deliver  it : 
Therefore  it  must,  with  circumstance,  be  spoken 
By  one  whom  she  esteemeth  as  his  friend. 

Duke.    Then  you  must  undertake  to  slander  him. 

Pro.    And  that,  my  lord,  I  shall  be  loath  to  do : 
*Tis  an  ill  office  for  a  gentleman ; 
Especially  against  his  very  friend. 

Duke.    Where  your  good  Avord  cannot  advantage  him,_ 
Your  slander  never  can  endamage  him ; 
Therefore  the  office  is  indifferent, 
Being  entreated  to  it  by  your  friend. 

Pro.    You  have  prevailed,  my  loid:  if  I  can  do  it, 
By  aught  that  I  can  speak  in  his  dispraise. 
She  shall  not  long  continue  love  to  him. 
But  say,  this  weed  her  love  from  Valentine, 
It  follows  not  that  she  will  love  Sir  Thurio. 

Thu.    Therefore,  as  you  unAvind  her  love  from  him. 
Lest  it  should  ravel,  and  be  good  to  none, 
You  must  provide  to  bottom  it  on  me : 
Which  must  be  done,  by  praising  me  as  much 
As  you  in  worth  dispraise  Sir  Valentino. 


A.CTin.]    TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  100 

Duhe.    And,  Proteus,  we  dare  ti'ust  you  in  this  kind ; 
Because  we  know,  on  Valentine's  report, 
You  are  already  love's  firm  votary. 
And  cannot  soon  revolt  and  change  your  mind. 
Upon  this  warrant  shall  you  have  access, 
Where  you  with  Silvia  may  confer  at  large ; 
For  she  is  lumpish,  heavy,  melancholy. 
And,  for  your  friend's  sake,  will  be  glad  of  you; 
Where  you  may  temper  her,  by  your  persuasion, 
To  hate  young  Valentine,  and  love  my  friend. 

Pro.    As  much  as  I  can  do,  I  will  effect :  — 
But  you.   Sir  Thurio,  are  not  sharp  enough ; 
You  must  lay  lime,  to  tangle  her  desires. 
By  wailful  sonnets,  whose  composed  rhymes 
Should  be  full  fraught  with  serviceable  vows. 

Duke.    Ay,  much  is  the  force  of  heaven-bred  poesy. 

Pro.    Say,  that  upon  the  altar  of  her  beauty 
You  sacrifice  your  tears,  your  sighs,  your  heart : 
Write  till  your  ink  be  dry ;  and  with  your  tears 
Moist  it  again ;  and  frame  some  feeling  line. 
That  may  discover  such  integrity ; 
For  Orpheus'  lute  was  strung  with  poets'  sinews ; 
Whose  golden  touch  could  soften  steel  and  stonea, 
Make  tigers  tame,  and  huge  leviathans 
Forsake  unsounded  deeps  to  dance  on  sands. 
After  your  dire-lamenting  elegies. 
Visit  by  night  your  lady's  chamber  window 
With  some  sweet  consort :  to  their  insti'uments 
Tune  a  deploring  dump ;  the  night's  dead  silence 
Will  well  become  such  sweet  complaining  grievance. 
This,  or  else  nothing,  will  inherit  her. 

Duke.    This  discipline  shows  thou  hast  been  in  love. 

Thu.    And  thy  advice  this  night  I  '11  put  in  practice : 
Therefore,  sweet  Proteus,  my  direction-giver 
Let  us  into  the  city  presently 
To  sort  some  gentlemen  well  skilled  in  music: 
I  have  a  sonnet,  that  will  serve  the  turn. 
To  give  the  onset  to  thy  good  advice. 

Duke.    About  it,  gentlemen. 

Pro.    We'll  wait  upon  your  grace  till  after  supper: 
And  afterward  determine  our  proceedings. 

Duke.    Even  now  about  it ;  I  will  pardon  you. 

\_Exeunt. 


K 


no  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.      [Act  IV 

ACT   TV. 

SCENE  I.     A  Forest,  near  Mantua. 

Enter  certain  Outlaws. 

1  Out.    Fellows,  stand  fast;  I  see  a  passenger. 

2  Out,    If  there  be  ten,  shrink  not,  but  down  with  'em. 

Enter  Valentine  and  Speed. 

3  Out.    Stand,  sir,  and  throw  us  that  you  have  about  you  , 
If  not,  we'll  make  you  sit,  and  rifle  you. 

Speed.    Sir,  we  are  undone  !  these  are  the  villains 
That  all  the  travellers  do  fear  so  much. 
Val.    My  friends, — 

1  Out.    That's  not  so,  sir ;  we  are  your  enemies. 

2  Out.    Peace ;  we'll  hear  him. 

3  Out.    Ay,  by  my  beard  will  we  ;  for  he's  a  proper  man. 
Val.    Then  know,  that  I  have  little  wealth  to  lose; 

A  man  I  am,  crossed  with  adversity: 

My  riches  are  these  poor  habiliments. 

Of  which  if  you  should  here  disfurnish  me, 

You  take  the  sum  and  substance  that  I  have. 

2  Out.    Whither  travel  you? 
Val.    To  Verona. 

1  Out.    Whence  come  you  ? 
Val.    From  Milan. 

3  Out.    Have  you  long  sojourned  there? 

Val.    Some  sixteen  months  ;  and  longer  might  have  staid. 
If  crooked  fortune  had  not  thwarted  me. 

1  Out.    What,  were  you  banished  thence? 
Val.    I  was. 

2  Out.    For  what  oifence  ? 

Val.    For  that  which  now  torments  me  to  rehearse;    ' 
I  killed  a  man,  whose  death  I  much  repent; 
But  yet  I  slew  him  manfully  in  fight, 
Without  false  vantage,  or  base  trea^^hery. 

1  Out.    Why,  ne'er  repent  it,  if  it  were  done  so ; 
But  were  you  banished  for  so  small  a  fault  ? 

Val.    I  was,  and  held  me  glad  of  such  a  doom. 

1  Out.    Have  you  the  tongues  ? 

Val.    My  youthful  travel  therein  made  me  happy; 
Or  else  I  often  had  been  miserable. 

3  Out.    By  the  bare  scalp  of  Robin  Hood's  fat  friar, 
This  fellow  were  a  king  for  our  wild  faction. 

1  Out.    We'll  have  him :  sirs,  a  word. 


Act  rV.]      TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  lH 

Speed.    Master,  be  one  of  them; 
It  is  an  honorable  kind  of  thievery. 
Val.    Peace,  villain  ! 

2  Out.    Tell  us  this :  have  you  any  thing  to  take  to  ? 
Val.    Nothing  but  my  fortune. 

3  Out.    Know,  then,  that  some  of  us  are  gentlemen, 
Such  as  the  fury  of  ungoverned  youth 

Thrust  from  the  company  of  awful  men: 
Myself  was  from  Verona  banished, 
For  practising  to  steal  away  a  lady. 
An  heir,  and  near  allied  unto  the  Duke. 

2.  Out.    And  I  from  Mantua,  for  a  gentleman, 
Whom,  in  my  mood,  I  stabbed  unto  the  heart. 

1  Out.    And  I,  for  such  like  petty  crimes  as  these. 
But  to  the  purpose,  —  (for  we  cite  our  faults. 

That  they  may  hold  excused  our  lawless  lives,) 
And,  partly,  seeing  you  are  beautified 
With  goodly  shape ;  and  by  your  own  report 
A  linguist,  and  a  man  of  such  perfection. 
As  we  do  in  our  quality  much  want ;  — 

2  Out.    Indeed,  because  you  are  a  banished  man, 
Therefore,  above  the  rest,  we  parley  to  you : 

Are  you  content  to  be  our  general? 

To  make  a  virtue  of  necessity. 

And  live,  as  we  do,  in  this  wilderness? 

3  Out.    What  say'st  thou?  wilt  thou  be  of  our  cons6rt? 
Say  ay,  and  be  the  captain  of  us  all ; 

We'll  do  thee  homage,  and  be  ruled  by  thee. 
Love  thee  as  our  commander  and  our  king. 

1  Out.    But  if  thou  scorn  our  courtesy,  thou  diest. 

2  Out.    Thou  shalt  not  live  to  brag  what  we  have  offered 
Val.    I  take  your  offer,  and  will  live  with  you; 

Provided  that  you  do  no  outrages 
On  silly  women,  or  poor  passengers. 

3  Out.  No,  we  detest  such  vile,  base  practices. 
Come,  go  with  us;  we'll  bring  thee  to  our  crews, 
And  show  thee  all  the  treasure  we  have  got ; 

Which,  with  ourselves,  all  rest  at  thy  dispose.      [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.     Milan.     Court  of  the  Palace. 
Enter  Pkoteus. 

Pro.   Already  have  I  been  false  to  Valentine, 
And  now  I  must  be  as  unjust  to  Thurio. 
Under  the  colour  of   commending  him, 
I  have  access  my  own  love  to  prefer; 


112  TWO  GENTLE]MEN  OF  VERONA.     [Act  IV 

But  Silvia  is  too  fair,  too  true,  too  holy, 

To  be  corrupted  "with  my  worthless  gifts. 

When  I  protest  true  loyalty  to  her. 

She  twits  me  with  my  falsehood  to  my  friend ; 

When  to  her  beauty  I  commend  my  vows, 

She  bids  mc  think,  how  I  have  been  forsworn 

In  breaking  faith  with  Julia  whom  I  loved : 

And,  notwithstanding  all  her  sudden  quips. 

The  least  whereof  would  quell  a  lover's  hope. 

Yet,  spaniel-like,  the  more  she  spurns  my  love, 

The  more  it  grows  and  fawneth  on  her  still. — 

But  here  comes  Thurio ;    now  must  we  to  her  window, 

A.nd  give  some  evening  music  to  her  ear. 

Eiiter  TiiURio  and  Musicians. 

Thu.    How  now,  Sir  Proteus  ?  are  you  crept  before  us  ? 

Pro.    Ay,  gentle  Thurio ;    for  you  know  that  love 
Will  creep  in  service  where  it  cannot  go. 

Tliu.    Ay,  but  I  hope,  sir,  that  you  love  not  here. 

Pro.    Sir,  but  I  do ;    or  else  I  would  be  hence. 

Tim.    Who?    Silvia? 

Pro.    Ay,   Silvia,  —  for  your  sake. 

Thu.    I  thank  you  for  your  own.     Now,  gentlemen, 
Let's  tune,  and  to  it  lustily  awhile. 

Enter  Host,  at  a  distance;   and  Julia  in  hoy's  clothes. 

Host.  Now,  my  young  guest !  methinks  you're  allycholly : 
T  pray  you,  why  is  it  ? 

Jul.    Marry,  mine  host,  because  I  cannot  be  merry. 

Host.  Come,  we'll  have  you  merry  :  I'll  bring  you  where 
you  shall  hear  music,  and  see  the  gentleman  that  you  asked  for. 

Jul.    But  shall  I  hear  him  speak  ? 

ffost.    Ay,  that  you  shall. 

Jul.    That  will  be  music.  [3Iu8ic  plai/8. 

Host.    Hark  !    hark  ! 

Jul.    Is  he  among  these  ? 

Host.    Ay :    but  peace ;   let's  hear  'em. 

SONG. 

Who  is  Sylvia  ?      What  is  she  ? 

That  all  our  swains  commend  herP 
Holy,  fair,  and  tvise  is  she ; 

The  heavens  such  grace  did  lend  her. 
That  she  might  admired  he. 

Is  she  hind,  as  she  is  fair  ? 
For  heaiity  lives  tvith  kindness: 


Act  IV.]     TWO   GENTLE3IEX   OF  VERONA.  113 

Love  doth  to  her  eyes  repair, 

To  help  him  of  his  hlindness ; 
And,  heing  helped,  inhabits  there. 

Then  to  Silvia  let  us  sing, 

That  Silvia  is  excelling ; 
She  excels  each  mortal  thing. 

Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling: 
To  her  let  us  garlands  bring. 

Host.  How  now  ?  are  you  sadder  than  you  were  before  ? 
How  do  you,  man?    the  music  likes  you  not. 

Jul.    You  mistake ;    the  musician  likes  me  not. 

Host.    Why,  my  pretty  youth  ? 

Jul.    He  plays  false,  father. 

Host.    How  ?  out  of  tune  on  the  strings  ? 

Jul.  Not  so ;  but  yet  so  false  that  he  grieves  my  very 
heart-strings. 

Host.    You  have  a  quick  ear. 

Jul.  Ay,  I  would  I  were  deaf!  it  makes  me  have  a  slow 
heart. 

Host.    I  perceive,  you  delight  not  in  music. 

Jul.    Not  a  whit,  when  it  jars  so. 

Host.    Hark,  what  fine  change  is  in  the  music ! 

Jul.    Ay ;  that  change  is  the  spite. 

Host.    You  would  have  them  always  play  but  one  thing  ? 

Jul.  I  would  always  have  one  play  but  one  thing.  But, 
host,  doth  this  Sir  Proteus,  that  we  talk  on,  often  resort 
unto  this  gentlewoman  ? 

Host.  I  tell  you  what  Launce,  his  man,  told  me,  he  loved 
her  out  of  all  nick. 

Jul.    W^hcre  is  Launce  ? 

Host.  Gone  to  seek  his  dog ;  which,  to-morrow,  by  his 
master's  command,  he  must  carry  for  a  present  to  his  lady. 

Jul.    Peace !  stand  aside !  the  company  parts. 

Pro.    Sir  Thurio,  fear  not  you!  I  will  so  plead, 
That  you  shall  say,  my  cunning  drift  excels. 

Thu.    Where  meet  we  ? 

Pro.    At  Saint  Gregory's  well. 

Thu.    Farewell.  [^Exeunt  Thu.  and  Musiciana. 

Silvia  appears  above,  at  her  window. 

Pro.    Madam,  good  even  to  your  ladyship. 

Sil.    I  thank  you  for  your  music,  gentlemen : 
Who  is  that,  that  spake  ? 

Pro.    One,  lady,  if  you  knew  his  pure  heart's  truth. 
You'd  quickly  learn  to  know  him  by  his  voice. 

Vol.  I.  —  8  k  * 


114  TAYO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.     [Act  lY. 

Sil.    Sir  Proteus,  as  I  take  it. 

JPro.    Sir  Proteus,  gentle  lady,  and  your  servant. 

Sil.    What  is  your  will  ? 

Pro.    That  I  may  compass  yours. 

jS(L    You  have  your  wish ;  my  will  is  even  this, — 
That  presently  you  hie  you  home  to  bed. 
Thou  subtle,  perjured,  false,  disloyal  man ! 
Think'st  thou,  I  am  so  shallow,  so  conceitless, 
To  be  seduced  by  thy  flattery. 
That  hast  deceived  so  many  with  thy  vows; 
Return,  return,  and  make  thy  love  amends. 
For  me, — by  this  pale  queen  of  night  I  swear 
I  am  so  far  from  granting  thy  request, 
That  I  despise  thee  for  thy  wrongful  suit ; 
And  by  and  by  intend  to  chide  myself. 
Even  for  this  time  I  spend  in  talking  to  thee. 

Pro.    I  grant,  sweet  love,  that  I  did  love  a  lady; 
But  she  is  dead. 

Jul.    'TAvere  false,  if  I  should  speak  it ; 
For,  I  am  sure,  she  is  not  buried.  [^Asidt. 

iSil.    Say  that  she  be;  yet  Valentine,  thy  friend, 
Survives ;  to  whom,  thyself  art  witness, 
I  am  betrothed :  And  art  thou  not  ashamed 
To  wrong  him  with  thy  importunacy  ? 

Pro.    I  likewise  hear,  that  Valentine  is  dead. 

iSil.    And  so  suppose  am  I;  for  in  his  grave. 
Assure'  thyself,  my  love  is  buried. 

Pro.    Sweet  lady,  let  me  rake  it  from  the  earth. 

Sil.    Go  to  thy  lady's  grave,  and  call  hers  thence; 
Or,  at  the  least,  in  hers  sepulchre  thine. 

Jul.    He  heard  not  that.  [^Aside. 

Pro.    Madam,  if  your  heart  be  so  obdurate, 
Vouchsafe  me  yet  your  picture  for  my  love, 
The  picture  that  is  hanging  in  your  chamber. 
To  that  I'll  speak,  to  that  I'll  sigh  and  w'eep ; 
For,  since  the  substance  of  your  perfect  self 
Is  else  devoted,  I  am  but  a  shadow ; 
And  to  your  shadow  will  I  make  true  love. 

Jul.    If  'twere  a  substance,  you  would,  sure,  deceive  it, 
And  make  it  but  a  shadow,  as  I  am. 

[^Aside. 

Sil.    I  am  very  loath  to  be  your  idol,  sir ; 
But,  since  your  falsehood  shall  become  you  well 
To  worship  shadows,  and  adore  false  shapes. 
Send  to  me  in  the  morning  and  I'll  send  it: 
And  so,   good  rest. 


Act  IV.]     TWO   GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA  115 

Pro.  As  wretches  have  o'ernight, 

That  wait  for  execution  in  the  morn, 

[^Exeunt  Proteus  ;  and  Silvia  from  above. 

Jul.    Host,  will  you  go  ? 

Host.    By  my  halidom,  I  was  fast  asleep. 

Jul.    Pray  you,  where  lies  Sir  Proteus  J: 

Host.    Marry,  at  my  house :  Trust  me,  I  think  'tis  almost 
day. 

Jul.    Not  so ;   but  it  hath  been  the  longest  night 
That  e'er  I  watched,  and  the  most  heaviest.         [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IIL      The  same. 
Enter  Eolamour. 

Egl.    This  is  the  hour  that  madam  Silvia 
Entreated  me  to  call  and  know  her  mind : 
There's  some  great  matter  she'd  employ  me  in. — 
Madam,  madam ! 

Silvia  appears  above,  at  lier  window. 

Sil.    Who  calls? 

Egl.    your  servant,  and  your  friend  ; 
One  that  attends  your  ladyship's  command. 

Sil.    Sir  Eglamour,  a  thousand  times  good-morrow. 

Egl.    As  many,  worthy  lady,  to  yourself. 
According  to  your  ladyship's  impose, 
I  am  thus  early  come,  to  know  what  service 
It  is  your  pleasure  to  command  me  in. 

Sil.    0  Eglamour,  thou  art  a  gentleman, 
(Think  not  I  flatter,  for  I  swear  I  do  not,) 
Valiant,  wise,  remorseful,  well  accomplished. 
Thou  art  not  ignorant,  what  dear  good-will 
I  bear  unto  the  banished  Valentine ; 
Nor  how  my  father  would  enforce  me  marry 
Vain  Thurio,  whom  my  very  soul  abhorred. 
Thyself  hast  loved ;   and  I  have  heard  thee  say, 
No  grief  did  ever  come  so  near  thy  heart, 
As  when  thy  lady  and  thy  true  love  died. 
Upon  whose  grave  thou  vow  dst  pure  chastity. 
Sir  Eglamour,  I  would  to  Valentine, 
To  Mantua,  where,  I  hear,  he  makes  abode; 
And,  for  the  ways  are  dangerous  to  pass, 
I  do  desire  thy  worthy  company. 
Upon  whose  faith  and  honour  I  repose. 
Urge  not  my  father's  anger,  Eglamour, 


116  TWO   GENTLEiMEN   OF  VERONA.     [ActI\. 

But  think  upon  my  grief,  a  lady  s  grief ; 

And  on  the  justice  of  my  flying  hence, 

To  keep  me  from  a  most  unholy  match, 

Which  heaven  and  fortune  still  reward  with  plagues. 

I  do  desire  thee,  even  from  a  heart 

As  full  of  sorrows  as  the  sea  of  sands, 

To  hear  me  company,  and  go  with  me : 

If  not,   to  hide  what  I  have  said  to  thee, 

That  I  may  venture  to  depart  alone. 

Egl.    Madam,  I  pity  much  your  grievances ; 
Which  since  I  know  they  virtuously  are  placed, 
I  give  consent  to  go  along  with  you; 
Recking  as  little  what  hetideth  me. 
As  much  I  wish  all  good  befortune  you. 
When  will  you  go  ? 

Sil.    This  evening  coming. 

JEgl.    Where  shall  I  meet  you? 

Sil.    At  friar  Patrick's  cell, 
Where  I  intend  holy  confession. 

Egl.    I  will  not  fail  your  ladyship  : 
Good-morrow,  gentle  lady. 

Sil.    Good-morrow,  kind  Sir  Eglamour.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.     The  same. 
Enter  Launce,  with  Ms  Dog. 

When  a  man's  servant  shall  play  the  cur  with  him,  look 
you,  it  goes  hard :  one  that  I  brought  up  of  a  puppy ;  one 
that  I  saved  from  drowning,  when  three  or  four  of  his  blind 
brothers  and  sisters  went  to  it !  I  have  taught  him — even  as 
one  would  say  precisely.  Thus  I  w^ould  teach  a  dog.  I  was 
sent  to  deliver  him,  as  a  present  to  mistress  Silvia,  from  my 
master ;  and  I  came  no  sooner  into  the  dining-chamber,  but 
he  steps  me  to  her  trencher,  and  steals  her  capon's  leg.  0, 
'tis  a  foul  thing,  when  a  cur  cannot  keep  himself  in  all  com- 
panies I  I  would  have,  as  one  should  say,  one  that  takes 
upon  him  to  be  a  dog  indeed,  to  be,  as  it  were,  a  dog  at  all 
things.  If  I  had  not  had  more  wit  than  he,  to  take  a  fault 
upon  me  that  he  did,  I  think  verily  he  had  been  hanged  for't : 
sure  as  I  live,  he  had  suffered  for't :  you  shall  judge.  He 
thrusts  me  himself  into  the  company  of  three  or  four  gentle- 
man-like dogs,  under  the  duke's  table  :  he  had  not  beeii  there 
(bless  the  mark)  a  pissing  while ;  but  all  the  chamber  smelt 
him.  Out  with  the  dog^  says  one  ;  Wliat  cur  is  that  ?  says 
another ;   Wlii'p  him  out,  says  the  third ;  Hang  him  up,  says 


Act  IV.]     TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  117 

the  duke.  I,  ha  ving  been  acquainted  with  the  smell  before, 
knew  it  was  Crab  ;  and  goes  me  to  the  fellow  that  whips  the 
dogs :  Frie7id,  quoth  I,  you  mean  to  wJdp  the  dog  f  Ay, 
marry,  do  I,  quoth  he.  You  do  him  the  more  wrong,  quoth 
I;  Hivas  I  did  the  thing  you  ivot  of.  He  makes  me  no  more 
ado,  but  whips  me  out  of  the  chamber.  How  many  masters 
would  do  this  for  their  servant  1  Nav,  I'll  be  sworn,  I  have 
sat  in  the  stocks  for  puddings  he  hath  stolen,  otherwise  he 
had  been  executed  :  I  have  stood  on  the  pillory  for  geese  he 
hath  killed,  otherwise  he  had  suftered  for't :  thou  think'st 
not  of  this  now !  —  Nay,  I  remember  the  trick  you  served 
me,  when  I  took  my  leave  of  madam  Silvia :  did  not  I  bid 
thee  still  mark  me,  and  do  as  I  do  ?  When  didst  thou  see 
me  heave  up  my  leg,  and  make  water  against  a  gentlewoman's 
farthingale  ?  didst  thou  ever  see  me  do  such  a  trick  ? 

Enter  Proteus  and  Julia. 

Pro.    Sebastian  is  thy  name?     I  like  thee  well, 
And  will  employ  thee  in  some  service  presently. 

Jul.    In  what  you  please;  —  I  will  do  what  I  can. 

Pro.    I  hope  thou  wilt.  —  How  now,  you  whoreson  pea- 
sant !  \_To  Launce. 
Where  have  you  been  these  two  days  loitering  ? 

Laun.  Marry,  sir,  I  carried  mistress  Silvia  the  dog  you 
bade  me. 

Pro.    And  what  says  she  to  my  little  jewel? 

Laun.  Marry,  she  says,  your  dog  was  a  cur ;  and  tells 
you,  currish  thanks  is  good  enough  for  such  a  present. 

Pro.    But  she  received  my  dog  ? 

Laun.  No,  indeed,  did  she  not :  here  have  I  brought  him 
back  again. 

Pro.    What,  didst  thou  offer  her  this  from  me  ? 

Laun.  Ay,  sir ;  the  other  squirrel  was  stolen  from  me 
by  the  hangman's  boys  in  the  mai'ket-place :  and  then  I 
offered  her  mine  own ;  who  is  a  dog  as  big  as  ten  of  yours, 
and  therefore  the  gift  the  greater. 

Pro.    Go,  get  thee  hence,  and  find  my  dog  again, 
Or  ne'er  return  again  into  my  sight. 
Away,  I  say :    Stay'st  thou  to  vex  me  here  ? 
A  slave,  that  still  an  end  turns  me  to  shame.     [Exit  Launch 
Sebastian,  I  have  entertained  thee. 
Partly,  tliat  I  have  need  of  such  a  youth. 
That  can  with  some  discretion  do  my  business, 
For  'tis  no  trusting  to  yon  foolish  lout ; 
But,  chiefly  for  thy  face  and  thy  behavior  : 
Which  (if  my  augury  deceive  me  not) 


Ii8  TWO  GENTLEMEN   OF  VEKONA.     [Act  IV 

Witness  good  bringing  up,  fortune,  and  truth : 
Therefore  know  thou,  for  this  I  entertain   thee. 
Go  presently  and  take  this  ring  with  thee, 
Deliver  it  to  madam   Silvia  : 
She  loved  me  well,  delivered  it  to  me. 

Jul.    It  seems  you  loved  her  not,  to  leave  her  token: 
She's  dead,  belike. 

Pro.    Not  so ;  I  think  she  lives. 

Jul.    Alas! 

Pro.    Why  dost  thou  cry,  alas  ? 

Jul.    I  cannot  choose  but  pity  her. 

Pro.    Wherefore  should'st  thou  pity  her? 

Jul.    Because,  methinks  that  she  loved  you  as  well 
As  you  do  love  your  lady  Silvia: 
She  dreams  on  him  that  has  forgot  her  love ; 
You  dote  on  her  that  cares  not  for  your  love. 
'Tis  pity,  love  should  be  so  contrary : 
And  thinking  on  it  makes  me  cry,  alas  ! 

Pro.    Well,  give   her  that  ring,  and  therewithal 
This  letter ;  —  that's  her  chamber. — Tell  my  lady, 
I  claim  the  promise  for  her  heavenly  picture. 
Your  message  done,  hie  home  unto  my  chamber. 
Where  thou  shalt  find  me  sad  and  solitary. 

[Exit  Proteus. 

Jul.    How  many  women  would  do  such  a  message  ? 
Alas,  poor  Proteus  !  thou  hast  entertained 
A  fox,  to  be  the  shepherd  of  thy  lambs : 
Alas,  poor  fool !  why  do  I  pity  him. 
That  with  his  very  heart  despiseth  me  ? 
Because  he  loves  her,  he  despiseth  me ; 
Because  I  love   him,  I  must  pity  him. 
This  ring  I  gave  him,  when  he  parted  from  me, 
To  bind  him  to  remember  my  good-will : 
And  now  am  I  (unhappy  messenger !) 
To  plead  for  that,  which  I  would  not  obtain ; 
To  carry  that  which  I  would  have  refused ; 
To  praise  his  faith  which  I  would  have  dispraised; 
I  am  my  master's  true,  confirmed  love ; 
But  cannot  be  true  servant  to  my  master, 
Unless  I  prove  false  traitor  to  myself. 
Yet  I  will  woo  for  him :  but  yet  so  coldly, 
As,  heaven  it  knows,  I  would  not  have  him  speed. 

JSnter  Silvia,  attended. 

Gentlewoman,  good  day !  I  pray  you  be  my  mean 
To  bring  me  where  to  speak  with  madam  Silvia. 


Act  IV  .J     TWO  GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  119 

iSil.    What  would  you  with  her,  if  that  I  be  she? 

Jul.    If  you  be  she,  I  do  eiiti-eat  your  patience 
To  hear  me  speak  the  message  I  am  sent  on. 

Sil.    From  whom  ? 

Jul.    From  my  master.  Sir  Proteus,  madam. 

iSil.    0  !  —  he  sends  you  for  a  picture  ? 

Jul.    Ay,  madam. 

Sil.    Ursula,  bring  my  picture  there. 

[JPictu7-e  brought 
Go,  give  your  master  this :  tell  him  from  me. 
One  Julia,  that  his  changing  thoughts  forget. 
Would  better  fit  his  chamber  than  this   shadow. 

Jul.    Madam,  please  you  peruse  this  letter. — 
Pardon  me,  madam ;  I  have  unadvised 
Delivered  you  a  paper  that  I  should  not ; 
This  is  the  letter  to  your  ladyship. 

iSil.    I  pray  thee  let  me  look  on  that  again. 

Jul.    It  may  not  be ;  good  madam,  pardon  me. 

Sil.    There,  hold. 
I  will  not  look  upon  your  master's  lines : 
I  know  they  are  stuffed  with  protestations. 
And  full  of  new-found  oaths ;  which  he  will  break 
As  easily  as  I  do  tear  his  paper. 

Jul.    Madam,  he   sends  your  ladyship  this  ring. 

Sil.    The  more  shame  for  him  that  he  sends  it  mcj 
For,  I  have  heard  him  say  a  thousand  times. 
His  Julia  gave  it  him  at  his  departure : 
Though  his  false  finger  hath  profaned  the  ring, 
Mine  shall  not  do  his  Julia  so  much  wrong. 

Jul.    She  thanks  you. 

Sil.    What  say'st  thou? 

Jul.    I  thank  you,  madam,  that  you  tender  her: 
Poor  gentlewoman !  my  master  wrongs  her  much. 

Sil.    Dost  thou  know  her  ? 

Jul.    Almost  as  well  as  I  do  know  myself: 
To  think  upon  her  woes,  I  do  protest, 
That  I  have  wept  a  hundred  several  times. 

Sil.    Belike,  she  thinks  that  Proteus  hath  forsook  her 

Jul.    I  think  she  doth,  and  that's  her  cause  of  sorrow 

Sil.    Is  she  not  passing  fair  ? 

Jul.    She  hath  been  fairer,  madam,  than  she  is : 
When  she  did  think  my  master  loved  her  well, 
She,  in  my  judgment,   was  as  fair  as  you; 
But  since  she  did  neglect  her  looking-glass, 
And  threw  her  sun-expelling  mask  away. 
The  air  hath  starved  the  roses  in  her  cheeks, 


120  TWO  GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.     [Act  IV 

And  pinched  the  lily-tincture  of  her  face. 
That  now  she  is  become  as  black  as  I. 

Sil.    How  tall  was  she  r 

Jul.    About  mj  stature :  for,  at  Pentecost, 
When  all  our  pageants  of  delight  were  played, 
Our  youth  got  me  to  play  the  woman's  part, 
And  I  was  trimmed  in  madam  Julia's  gown, 
Which  served  me  as  fit,  by  all  men's  judgment, 
As  if  the  garment  had  been  made  for  me ; 
Therefore,  I  know  she  is  about  my  height. 
And,  at  that  time,  I  made  her  weep  a  good. 
For  I  did  play  a  lamentable  part  : 
Madam,   'twas  Ariadne,  passioning 
For  Theseus'  perjury,  and  unjust  flight; 
Which  I  so  lively  acted  with  my  tears. 
That  my  poor  mistress,  moved  therewithal. 
Wept  bitterly ;  and  would  I  might  be  dead. 
If  I  in  thought  felt  not  her  very  sorrow ! 

Sil.    She  is  beholden  to  thee,  gentle  youth ! 
Alas,  poor  lady  !  desolate  and  left !  — 
I  weep  myself,  to  think  upon  thy  words. 
Here,  youth,  there  is  my  purse ;  I  give  thee  this 
For  thy  sweet  mistress'  sake,  because  thou  lovest  her. 
Farewell.  [^Exit  Silvia. 

Jul.    And  she  shall  thank  you  for't,  if  e'er  you  know  her. — 
A  virtuous  gentlewoman,  mild,  and  beautifuh 
I  hope  my  master's  suit  will  be  but  cold, 
Since  she  respects  my  mistress'  love  so  much. 
Alas,  how  love  can  trifle  with  itself! 
Here  is  her  picture :  let  me  see ;  I  think. 
If  I  had  such  a  tire,  this  face  of  mine 
Were  full  as  lovely  as  is  this  of  hers : 
And  yet  the  painter  flattered  her  a  little. 
Unless  I  flatter  with  myself  too  much. 
Her  hair  is  auburn,  mine  is  perfect  yellow; 
If  that  be  all  the  difi'erence  ir  his  love, 
I'll  get  me  such  a  colored  periwig. 
Her  eyes  are  gray  as  glass ;  and  so  are  mine : 
Ay,  but  her  forehead's  low,  and  mine's  as  high. 
What  should  it  be,  that  he  respects  in  her, 
But  I  can  make  respective  in  myself. 
If  this  fond  love  were  not  a  blinded  god  ? 
Come,   shadow,  come,  and  take  this  shadow  up, 
For  'tis  thy  rival.     0  thou  senseless  form, 
Thou  shalt  be  worshipped,  kissed,  loved,  and  adored: 
And,  were  there  sense  in  his  idolatry, 


AcrV.]       TWO   GENTLExMEN   OF  VERONA.  121 

My  substance  should  be  statue  in  thy  stead. 

I'll  use  thee  kindly  for  thy  mistress'  sake, 

That  used  me  so ;  or  else  by  Jove  I  vow, 

I  should  have  scratched  out  your  unseeing  eyes, 

To  make  my  master  out  of  lore  with  thee.  \_Exit. 


ACT   V. 

SCENE  I.     The  same.     An  Alley. 
Enter  Eglamour. 

Egl.    The  sun  begins  to  gild  the  western  sky ; 
And  now  it  is  about  the  very  hour 
That  Silvia,  at  friar  Patrick's  cell,  should  meet  me. 
She  will  not  fail ;   for  lovers  break  not  hours. 
Unless  it  be  to  come  before  their  time ; 
So  much  they  spur  their  expedition. 

Enter  Silvia. 

See  where  she  comes ;  Lady,  a  happy  evening ! 

Sil.    Amen,  amen !   go  on,  good  Eglamour ! 
Out  at  the  postern  by  the  abbey  wall ; 
I  fear  I  am  attended  by  some  spies. 

Egl.    Fear  not:  the  forest  is  not  three  leagues  off: 
If  we  recover  that,  we  are  sure  enough.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.     The  same.     A  Room  in  the  Duke's  Palace. 
Enter  Thurio,  Proteus,  and  Julia. 

Thu.    Sir  Proteus,  what  says  Silvia  to  my  suit  ? 

Pro.    0,  sir,  I  find  her  milder  than  she  was  ; 
And  yet  she  takes  exceptions  at  your  person. 

Thu.    What,  that  my  leg  is  too  long  ? 

Pro.    No ;  that  it  is  too  little. 

Thu.    I'll  wear  a  boot,  to  make  it  somewhat  rounder. 

Pro.    But  love  will  not  be  spurred  to  what  it  loathes. 

Thu.    What  says  she  to  my  face  ? 

Pro.    She  says  it  is  a  fair  one. 

Thu.    Nay,  then  the  wanton  lies ;  my  face  is  black. 

Pro.    But  pearls  arc  fair;   and  the  old  saying  is, 
Black  men  are  pearls  in  beauteous  ladies'  eyes. 

L 


122  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VEllONA.       [Act  V. 

Jul.    'Tis  true;   such  pearls  as  put  out  ladies'  eyes; 
For  I  had  rather  wink  than  look  on  them.  [Aside 

Thu.    How  likes  she  my  discourse  ? 
Pro.    Ill,  Avhen  you  talk  of  war. 

27m.    But  well,  when  I  discourse  of  love  and  peace? 
Jul.   But  better  indeed,  when  you  hold  your  peace.  [Aside. 
Tim.    What  says  she  to  my  valor? 
Pro.    0,  sir,  she  makes  no  doubt  of  that. 
Jul.   She  needs  not,  when  she  knows  it  cowardice.  [Aside. 
Thu.    What  says  she  to  my  birth  ? 
Pro.    That  you  are  well  derived. 

Jill.    True,  from  a  gentleman  to  a  fool.  [Aside, 

Thu.    Considers  she  my  possessions? 
Pro.    0,  ay ;   and  pities  them. 
Thu.    Wherefore? 

Jul.    That  such  an  ass  should  owe  them.  [Aside. 

Pro.    That  they  are  out  by  lease. 
Jul.    Here  comes  the  duke. 

Enter  Duke. 

Duke.    How  now,  Sir  Proteus?  how  now,  Thurio? 
Which  of  you  saw  Sir  Eglamour  of  late  ? 

Thu.    Not  I. 

Pro.    Nor  I. 

.Duke.    Saw  you  my  daughter  ? 

Pro.    Neither. 

Puke.    Why,  then  she's  fled  unto  that  peasant  Valentine; 
And  Eglamour  is  in  her  company. 
'Tis  true  ;   for  friar  Laurence  met  them  both, 
As  he  in  penance  wandered  through  the  forest ; 
Him  he  knew  well,  and  guessed  that  it  was  she: 
But,  being  masked,  he  was  not  sure  of  it : 
Besides,  she  did  intend  confession 
At  Patrick's  cell  this  even:  and  there  she  was  not: 
These  likelihoods  confirm  her  flight  from  hence. 
Therefore,  I  pray  you,  stand  aot  to  discoui'se, 
But  mount  you  presently ;  and  meet  with  me 
Upon  the  rising  of  the  mountain  foot 
That  leads  towords  Mantua,  whither  they  are  fled : 
Despatch,  sweet  gentlemen,  and  follow  me.  [Exit. 

Thu.    Why,  this  it  is  to  be  a  peevish  girl, 
That  flies  her  fortune  when  it  follows  her : 
I'll  after ;  more  to  be  revenged  on  Eglamour, 
Than  for  the  love  of  reckless  Silvia.  [Exit. 

Pro.    And  I  will  follow,  more  for  Silvia's  love, 
Than  hate  of  Eglamour  that  goes  with  her.  [Exit. 


Act  v.]      two   GEXTJ.j^MEX  OF  VERONA.  123 

Jul    And  I  will  follow  more  to  cross  that  love, 
Than  hate  for  Silvia,  that  is  gone  for  love.  [Exit. 

SCENE  III.     Frontiers  of  Mantua.     The  Forest, 
Enter  Silvia  and  Outlaws. 

Out.    Come,  come ; 
Be  patient,  we  must  bring  you  to  our  captain. 

Sil.    A  thousand  more  mischances  than  this  one 
Have  learned  me  how  to  brook  this  patiently. 

2  Out.    Come,  bring  hex   away. 

1   Out.    Where  is  the  gentleman  that  was  with  her? 

3  Out.    Being  nimble-footed,  he  hath  outrun  us. 
But  Moyses  and  Valerius  follow  him. 

Go  thou  with  her  to  the  west  end  of  the  wood; 
There  is  our  captain :  we'll  follow  him  that's  fled : 
The  thicket  is  beset,  he  cannot  'scape. 

1   Out.    Come,  I  must  bring  you  to  our  captain's  cave : 
Fear  not ;  he  bears  an  honorable  mind. 
And  will  not  use  a  woman  lawlessly. 

Sil.    0  Valentine,  this  I  endure  for  thee  !  [Exeunt 

SCENE  IV      Another  Part  of  the  Forest. 
Enter  Valentine. 

Val.    How  use  doth  breed  a  habit  in  a  man ! 
This  shadowy  desert,  unfrequented  woods, 
I  better  brook  than  flourishing,  peopled  towns: 
Here  can  I  sit  alone,  unseen  of  any. 
And,  to  the  nightingale's  complaining  notes, 
Tune  my  distresses,  and  record  my  woes. 
0  thou  that  dost  inhabit  in  my  breast, 
Leave  not  the  mansion  so  long  tenantless ; 
Lest,  growing  ruinous,  the  building  fall. 
And  leave  no  memory  of  what  it  was ! 
Repair  me  with  thy  presence,   Silvia ; 
Thou  gentle  nymph,  cherish  thy  forlorn  swain !  — 
What  hallooing,  and  what  stir,  is  this  to-day  ? 
These  a'-e  my  mates,  that  make  their  wills  their  law, 
Have  some  unhappy  passenger  in  chase: 
They  love  me  well ;  yet  I  have  much  to  do 
To  keep  them  from  uncivil  outrages. 
Withdraw  thee,  Valentine ;  who's  this  comes  here  ? 

[Steps  aside. 


124  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.       [Act  7, 

Enter  Proteus,  Silvia,  and  Julia. 

Pro.    Madam,  this  service  I  have  done  for  you, 
(Though  you  respect  not  aught  your  servant  doth,) 
To  hazard  life,  and  rescue  you  from  him 
That  would  have  forced  your  honour  and  your  love. 
Vouchsafe  me,  for  my  meed,  but  one  fair  look ; 
A  smaller  boon  than  this  I  cannot  beg. 
And  less  than  this,  I'm  sure,  you  cannot  give. 

Vol.    How  like  a  dream  is  this  I  see  and  hear ! 
Love,  lend  me  patience  to  forbear  a  while.  \_Aside. 

Sil.    0  miserable,  unhappy  that  I  am  ! 

Pro.    Unhappy  were  you,  madam,  ere  I  came ; 
But,  by  my  coming,  I  have  made  you  happy. 

Sil.    By  thy  approach  thou  mak'st  me  most  unhappy. 

Jul.    And  me,  Avhen  he  approacheth  to  your  presence. 

[Aside. 

Sil.    Had  I  been  seized  by  a  hungry  lion, 
I  would  have  been  a  breakfast  to  the  beast, 
Rather  than  have  false  Proteus  rescue  me. 
0,  heaven  be  judge,  how  I  love  Valentine, 
Whose  life's  as  tender  to  me  as  my  soul ; 
And  full  as  much  (for  more  there  cannot  be) 
I  do  detest  false,  perjured  Proteus : 
Therefore  begone,  solicit  me  no  nore. 

Pro.    What  dangerous  action,  stood  it  next  to  death, 
Would  I  not  undergone  for  one  calm  look  ! 
0,   'tis  the  curse  in  love,  snd  still  approved, 
When  women  cannot  love  where  they're  beloved. 

Sil.    When  Proteus  cannot  love  where  he's  beloved. 
Read  over  Julia's  heart,  thy  first,  best  love. 
For  whose  dear  sake  thou  didst  then  rend  thy  faith 
Into  a  thousand  oaths ;  and  all  those  oaths 
Descended  into  perjury,  to  love  me. 
Thou  hast  no  faith  left  now,  unles-'S  thou  hadst  two, 
And  that's  far  worse  than  none ;  better  have  none 
Than  plural  faith,  which  is  too  much  by  one : 
Thou  counterfeit  to  thy  true  friend ! 

Pro.  In  love, 

Who  respects  friend  ? 

Sil.  All  men  but  Proteus. 

Pro.    Nay,  if  the  gentle  spirit  of  moving  woras 
Can  no  way  change  you  to  a  milder  form, 
I'll  woo  you  like  a  soldier,  at  arms'  end ; 
And  love  you  'gainst  the  nature  of  love,  force  you. 

Sil.    0  heaven  ! 


' 


ACT^.J      TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF   VEEONA.  125 

Pro.  I'll  force  thee  yield  to  my  desire. 

Vol.    Ruffian,  let  go  that  rude,  uncivil  touch ; 
Thou  friend  of  an  ill  fashion. 

Pro.  Valentine ! 

Val.    Thou  common  friend,  that's  without  faith  or  love, 
(For  such  is  a  friend  now,)  treacherous  man ! 
Thou  hast  beguiled  my  hopes ;  nought  but  mine  eye 
Could  have  persuaded  me :  Now  I  dare  not  say 
I  have  one  friend  alive ;  thou  would'st  disprove  me. 
Who  should  be  trusted  now,  when  one's  right  hand 
Is  perjured  to  the  bosom  ?     Proteus, 
I  am  sorry  I  must  never  trust  thee  more. 
But  count  the  world  a  stranger  for  thy  sake. 
The  private  wound  is  deepest :   0  time  most  accurst ! 
'Mongst  all  foes,  that  a  friend  should  be  the  worst ! 

Pro.    My  shame  and  guilt  confound  me.  — 
Forgive  me,  Valentine :  if  hearty  sorrow  ^       , 

Be  a  sufficient  ransom  for  offence, 
I  tender  it  here ;  I  do  as  truly  suffer, 
As  e'er  I  did  commit. 

Val.  Then  I  am  paid; 

And  once  again  I  do  receive  thee  honest :  — 
Who  by  repentance  is  not  satisfied. 
Is  nor  of  heaven  nor  earth ;  for  these  are  pleased ; 
By  penitence  th'  Eternal's  wrath's  appeased :  — 
And,  that  my  love  may  appear  plain  and  free, 
All  that  was  mine  in  Silvia,  I  give  thee. 

Jul.    0  me,  unhappy !  [Faints. 

Pro.    Look  to  the  boy. 

Val.   Why,    boy !    why,  wag !    how  now  ?   what   is   the 
matter  ?  Look  up ;  speak. 

Jul.    0  good  sir,  my  master  charged  me  to  deliver  a  ring 
to  madam  Silvia ;  which,  out  of  my  neglect,  was  never  done. 

Pro.    Where  is  that  ring,  boy  ? 

Jul.    Here  'tis :  this  is  it.  \Crives  a  ring. 

Pro.    IIow  !  let  me  see  :  why,  this  is  the  ring  I  gave  to 
Julia. 

Jul.    0,  cry  you  mercy,  sir ;  I  have  mistook  :  this  is  the 
ring  you  sent  to  Silvia.  \_Shows  another  ring. 

Pro.    But,  how  cam'st  thou  by  this  ring  ?  at  my  depart, 
I  gave  this  unto  Julia. 

Jul.    And  Julia  herself  did  give  it  me ; 
And  Julia  herself  hath  brought  it  hither. 

Pro.    How  !  Julia  ! 

Jul.    Behold  her  that  gave  aim  to  all  thy  oaths, 
And  entertained  them  deeply  in  her  heart: 


126  TWO  GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.       [Act  V 

How  oft  hast  thou  with  perjury  cleft  the  root ! 

0  Proteus,  let  this  habit  make  thee  blush ! 
Be  thou  ashamed,  that  I  have  took  upon  me 
Such  an  immodest  raiment;   if  shame  live 

In  a  disguise  of  love : 

It  is  the  lesser  blot  modesty  finds, 

Women  to  change  their  shapes,  than  men  their  minds. 

I-*7'o.    Than  men  their  minds  ?  't  is  true  :  0  heaven  !  were 
man 
But  constant,  he  were  perfect :  that  one  error 
Fills  him  with  faults ;  makes  him  run  through  all  the  sins ; 
Inconstancy  falls  off,  ere  it  begins : 
What  is  in  Silvia's  face,  but  I  may  spy 
More  fresh  in  Julia's,  with  a  constant  eye? 

Vol.    Come,  come,  a  hand  from  either : 
Let  me  be  blest  to  make  this  happy  close  ? 
'Twere  pity  two  such  friends  should  be  long  foes. 

Pro.    Bear  witness,  heaven,  I  have  my  wish  forever. 

Jul.    And  I  mine. 

Enter  Outlaws,  with  Duke  and  Thurio. 

Out.    A  prize,  a  prize,  a  prize ! 

Vol.    Forbear,  forbear,  I  say ;  it  is  my  lord  the  duke. 
Your  grace  is  welcome  to  a  man  disgraced, 
Banished  Valentine. 

Duke.  Sir  Valentine ! 

Thu.    Yonder  is  Silvia ;  and  Silvia's  mme. 

Val.    Thurio,  give  back,  or  else  embrace  thy  death; 
Come  not  within  the  measure  of  my  wrath ; 
Do  not  name  Silvia  thine :  if  once  again, 
Verona  shall  not  hold  thee.     Here  she  stands; 
Take  but  possession  of  her  with  a  touch; — 

1  dare  thee  but  to  breathe  upon  my  love. 
Thu.    Sir   Valentine,  I  care  not  for  her,  I ; 

I  hold  him  but  a  fool,  that  will  endanger 
His  body  for  a  girl  that  loves  him  not : 
I  claim  her  not,  and  therefore  she  is  thine. 

Duke.    The  more  degenerate  and  base  art  thou, 
To  make  such  means  for  her  as  thou  hast  done, 
And  leave  her  on  such  slight  conditions. — 
Now,  by  the  honour  of  my  ancestry 
I  do  applaud  thy  spirit,  Valentine, 
And  think  thee  worthy  of  an  empress'  love. 
Know  then,  I  here  forget  all  former  griefs, 
Cancel  all  grudge,  repeal  thee  home  again. — 
Plead  a  new  state  in  thy  unrivalled  merit, 


Act  v.]      TWO   GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  127 

To  which  I  thus  subscribe,  —  Sir  Valentine, 

Thou  art  a  gentleman,  and  well  derived : 

Take  thou  thy  Silvia,  for  thou  hast  deserved  her. 

Val.    I  thank  your  grace  ;  the  gift  hath  made  me  happy. 
I  now  beseech  you,  for  your  daughter's  sake, 
To  grant  one  boon  that  I  shall  ask  of  you. 

Duke.    I  grant  it  for  thine  own,  whate'er  it  be. 

Val.    These  banished  men,  that  I  have  kept  withal, 
Are  men  endued  with  worthy  qualities ; 
Forgive  them  what  they  have  committed  here. 
And  let  them  be  recalled  from  their  exile : 
They  are  reformed,  civil,  full  of  good, 
And  fit  for  great  employment,  worthy  lord. 

Duke.    Thou  hast  prevailed  ;  I  pardon  them,  and  thee : 
Dispose  of  them,  as  thou  know'st  their  deserts. 
Come,  let  us  go ;   we  will  include  all  jars 
With  triumphs,  mirth,  and  rare  solemnity. 

Val.    And,  as  we  walk  along,  I  dare  be  bold 
With  our  discourse  to  make  your  grace  to  smile: 
What  think  you  of  this  page,  my  lord? 

Duke.    I  think  the  boy  hath  grace  in  him ;  he  blushes. 

Val.    I  warrant  you,  my  lord ;  more  grace  than  boy. 

Duke.    What  mean  you  by  that  saying  ? 

Val.    Please  you,  I'll  tell  you  as  we  pass  along, 
That  you  will  wonder  what  hath  fortuned. — 
Come,  Proteus ;  'tis  your  penance,  but  to  hear 
The  story  of  your  loves  discovered : 
That  done,  our  day  of  marriage  shall  be  yours ; 
One  feast,  one  house,  one  mutual  happiness.        {^JSxeunt. 


I 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR 


Vol.  1—9  129 


PERSONS   REPRESENTED. 

Sir  John  Falstaff. 

Fenton. 

Shallow,  a  country  Justice. 

Slender,   Cousin  to  Shallow. 

Mr   Page  1  '^'"^   Gentlemen  dwelling  at  Windsor. 

William  Page,  a  Boy.,  Son  to  Mr.  Page 

Sir  Hugh  Evans,  a  Welsh  Parson 

Dr.  Caius,  a  French  Physician. 

Host  of  the   Garter  Inn. 

Bardolph,  ~| 

I'ISTOL,        [•  Followers  of  Falstaff. 

Nym,  3 

IloBiN,   Page  to  Falstaff. 

Simple,   Servant  to  Slender. 

Rugby,   Servant  to  Dr.  Caius. 

Mrs.  Ford. 

Mrs.  Page. 

Mrs.  Anne  Page,  her  Daughter,  in  love  with  Feu'.un. 

Mrs.  Quickly,   Servant  to  Dr.  Caius. 

ServaiUs  to  Page,  Ford,  S^c. 

SCENE.     Windsor,  and  the  Parts  adjacent. 


(130) 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.     Windsor.     Before  Page's  House. 
Enter  Justice  Shallow,  Slender,  and  Sir  Hugh  Evans. 

Shah  Sir  Hugh,  persuade  me  not ;  I  will  make  a  Star- 
chamber  matter  of  it:  if  he  Avere  twenty  Sir  John  Falstaffs, 
he  shall  not  abuse  Robert  Shallow,  esquire. 

Slen.  In  the  county  of  Gloster,  justice  of  peace,  and  coram. 

Shal.    Ay,  cousin  Slender,  and  Cust-alorum. 

Slen.  Aj,  and  ratolorum  too ;  and  a  gentleman  born, 
master  parson;  who  writes  himself  armigero ;  in  any  bill, 
warrant,  quittance,  or  obligation,  armigero. 

Shal.  Ay,  that  I  do ;  and  have  done  any  time  these  three 
hundred  years. 

Slen.  All  his  successors,  gone  before  him,  have  done't ; 
and  all  his  ancestors,  that  come  after  him,  may :  they  may 
give  the  dozen  white  luces  in  their  coat. 

Shal.    It  is  an  old  coat. 

Eva.  The  dozen  white  louses  do  become  an  old  coat  well ; 
it  agrees  well,  passant :  it  is  a  familiar  beast  to  man,  and 
signifies  —  love. 

Shal.  The  luce  is  the  fresh  fish ;  the  salt  fish  is  an  old  coat. 

Slen.    I  may  quarter,  coz  ? 

Shal.    You  may,  by  marrying. 

Eva.    It  is  marring  indeed,  if  he  quarter  it. 

Shal.    Not  a  whit. 

Eva.  Yes,  pe'r-lady ;  if  he  has  a  quarter  of  your  coat, 
there  is  but  three  skirts  for  yourself,  in  my  simple  conjec- 
tures :  but  that  is  all  one  :  If  Sir  John  Falstafl'  have  com- 
mitted disparagements  unto  you,  I  am  of  the  church,  and 
will  be  glad  to  do  my  benevolence,  to  make  atonements  and 
compromises  between  you. 

Shal.    The  Council  shall  hear  it ;  it  is  a  riot. 

(]3r, 


132  MERRY  WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  [Act  I. 

Eva.  It  is  not  meet  the  Council  hear  a  riot ;  there  is  no 
fear  of  Got  in  a  riot :  the  Council,  look  you,  shall  desire  to 
hear  the  fear  of  Got,  and  not  to  hear  a  riot ;  take  your 
vizaments  in  that. 

Shal.  Ha !  o'  my  life,  if  I  were  young  again,  the  sword 
should  end  it. 

Eva.  It  is  petter  that  friends  is  the  sword,  and  end  it : 
and  there  is  also  another  device  in  my  prain,  which,  perad- 
venture,  prings  goot  discretions  Avitli  it :  There  is  Anne  Page, 
which  is  daughter  to  master  George  Page,  whicli  is  pretty 
virginity. 

Slen.  Mistress  Anne  Page  ?  She  has  brown  hair,  and 
speaks  small  like  a  woman. 

Eva.  It  is  that  fery  person  for  all  the  'orld,  as  just  as 
you  will  desire ;  and  seven  hundred  pounds  of  moneys,  and 
gold,  and  silver,  is  her  grandsire,  upon  his  death's  bed  (Got 
deliver  to  a  joyful  resurrections !)  give,  when  she  is  able  to 
overtake  seventeen  years  old :  it  were  a  goot  motion,  if  we 
leave  our  pribbles  and  prabbles,  and  desire  a  marriage  be- 
tween master  Abraham  and  mistress  Anne  Page. 

Shal.  Did  her  grandsire  leave  her  seven  hundred  pounds  ? 

Eva.    Ay,  and  her  father  is  make  her  a  petter  penny. 

Shal.  I  know  the  young  gentlewoman ;  she  has  good  gifts. 

Eva.  Seven  hundred  pounds,  and  possibilities,  is  good  gifts. 

Shal.  Well,  let  us  see  honest  master  Page :  Is  Falstaff 
there  ? 

Eva.  Shall  I  tell  you  a  lie  ?  I  do  despise  a  liar,  as  I  do 
despise  one  that  is  false ;  or,  as  I  despise  one  that  is  not 
true.  The  knight.  Sir  John,  is  there ;  and,  I  beseech  you, 
be  ruled  by  your  Avell-willers.  I  will  peat  the  door  [Jcnoclcs] 
for  master  Page.     What,  hoa !  Got  pless  your  house  here  ! 

Enter  Page. 

Page.    Who's  there  ? 

Eva.  Here  is  Got's  plessing,  and  your  friend,  and  justice 
Shallow :  and  here  young  master  Slender ;  that,  peradven- 
tures,  shall  tell  you  another  tale,  if  matters  grow  to  your 
likings. 

Page.  I  am  giad  to  see  your  worships  well :  I  thank  you 
for  my  venison,  master  Shallow. 

Shal.  Master  Page,  I  am  glad  to  see  you :  Much  good 
do  it  your  good  heart !  I  wished  your  venison  better ;  it 
was  ill  killed:  —  How  doth  good  mistress  Page? — and  I 
love  you  always  with  my  heart,  la ;  with  my  heart. 

Page.    Sir,  I  thank  you. 

Shal.    Sir,  I  thank  you ;  by  yea  and  no,  I  do. 


Act  I.]  MERRY  WIVES   OF   WINDSOR.  133 

Page.    I  am  glad  to  see  you,  good  master  Slender. 

Slen.  How  does  your  fallow  greyhound,  sir  ?  I  heard 
Bay,  he  was  outrun  on  Cotsale. 

Page.    It  could  not  be  judged,  sir. 

Sleii.    You'll  not  confess,  you'll  not  confess. 

Shal.  That  he  ayIII  not ;  — 'tis  your  fault,  'tis  your  fault : 
— 'Tis  a  good  dog. 

Page.    A  cur,  sir. 

Shal.  Sir,  he's  a  good  dog,  and  a  fair  dog :  Can  there  be 
more  said?  he  is  good,  and  fair. — Is  Sir  John  Falstaff  here? 

Page.  Sir,  he  is  within ;  and  I  would  I  could  do  a  good 
office  between  you. 

Fjva.    It  is  spoke  as  a  Christians  ought  to  speak. 

Slial.    He  hath  wronged  me,  master  Page. 

J'' age.    Sir,  he  doth  in  some  sort  confess  it. 

Shal.  If  it  be  confessed,  it  is  not  redressed ;  is  not  that 
so,  master  Page  ?  He  hath  wronged  me ;  indeed  he  hath  ; 
—  at  a  word,  he  hath ;  —  believe  me ;  —  Robert  Shallow, 
esquire,  saith  he  is  wronged. 

Page.    Here  comes  Sir  John. 

Unter  Sir  John  Falstaff,  Bardolph,  Nym,  and  Pistol. 

Pal.  Now,  master  Shallow  :  you'll  complain  of  me  to  the 
king? 

Shal.  Knight,  you  have  beaten  my  men,  killed  my  deer, 
and  broke  open  my  lodge. 

Pal.    But  not  kissed  your  keeper's  daughter  ? 

Shal.    Tut,  a  pin  !  this  shall  be  answered. 

Pal.  I  will  answer  it  straight;  —  I  have  done  all  this;  — 
That  is  now  answered. 

Shal.    The  Council  shall  know  this. 

Pal.  'Twere  better  for  you,  if  it  were  known  in  counsel : 
you'll  be  laughed  at. 

Pva.    Pauca  verba,  Sir  John,  good  worts. 

Pal.  Good  worts !  good  cabbage. —  Slender,  I  broke  your 
head ;  What  matter  have  you  against  me  ? 

Slen.  Marry,  sir,  I  have  matter  in  my  head  against  you ; 
and  against  3'our  cony-catching  rascals,  Bardolph,  Nym,  and 
Pistol.  Tbcy  carried  me  to  the  tavern,  and  made  me  drunk, 
and  afterwards  picked  my  pocket. 

Bar.    You  Banbury  cheese ! 

Slen.    Ay,  it  is  no  matter. 

Pist.    H<"w  now,  Mephostophilus  ? 

Slen.    Ay,  it  is  no  matter. 

Kijm.  Slice,  I  say !  pauca,  pauca ;  slice !  that's  my 
humor. 

M 


134  MERRY  WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  [Act! 

Slen.    Where's  Simple,  mj  man  ?  can  you  tell,  cousin  ? 

^va.  Peace,  I  pray  you !  Now  let  us  understand :  There 
is  three  umpires  in  this  matter,  as  I  understand:  that  is  — 
master  Page,  Jidelicet,  master  Page ;  and  tlicre  is  myself, 
Jiddicet,  myself;  and  the  three  party  is,  lastly  and  finally, 
mine  host  of  the  Garter. 

Page,    We  three,  to  hear  it,  and  end  it  between  them. 

Eva.  Fery  goot :  I  will  make  a  prief  of  it  in  my  note- 
book ;  and  we  will  afterwards  'ork  upon  the  cause  with  as 
great  discreetly  as  we  can. 

Fal.    Pistol, 

Pist.    He  hears  with  ears. 

Eva.  The  tevil  and  his  tam  !  what  phrase  is  this.  He 
hears  tvitli  ear?     Why,  it  is  aifectations. 

Fal.    Pistol,  did  you  pick  master  Slender's  purse  ? 

Slen.  Ay,  by  these  gloves,  did  he,  (or  I  would  I  might 
never  come  in  mine  own  great  chamber  again  else,)  of  sewn 
groats  in  mill-sixpences,  and  two  Edward  shovel-boards,  that 
cost  me  two  shilling  and  twopence  a-piece  of  Yead  Miller, 
by  these  gloves. 

Fal.    Is  this  true,  Pistol  ? 

Eva.    No ;  it  is  false,  if  it  is  a  pick-purse. 

Pist.    Ha,    thou   mountain-foreigner !  —  Sir   John,    and 
master  mine, 
I  Combat  challenge  of  this  latten  bilbo : 
Word  of  denial  in  thy  labras  here ; 
Word  of  denial ;  froth  and  scum,  thou  liest ! 

Slen.    By  these  gloves,  then,  'twas  he. 

Nym.  Be  avised,  sir,  and  pass  good  humors :  I  will  say, 
viarry,  trap,  with  you,  if  you  run  the  nut-hooks  humor  on 
me ;  that  is  the  very  note  of  it. 

Slen.  By  this  hat,  then,  he  in  the  red  face  had  it :  for 
though  I  cannot  remember  v.hat  I  did  when  you  made _me 
drunk,  yet  I  am  not  altogether  an  ass. 

Fal.    What  say  you,  Scarlet  and  John  ? 

Bard.  W^liy,  sir,  for  my  part,  I  say,  the  gentleman  had 
drunk  himself  out  of  his  five  sentences. 

Eva.    It  is  his  five  senses  :  fie,  what  the  ignorance  is  ! 

Bard.  And  being  fap,  sir,  was,  as  they  say,  cashiered; 
and  so  conclusions  passed  the  careires. 

Slen.  Ay,  you  spake  in  Latin  then,  too;  but  'tis  no  mat- 
ter :  I'll  ne'er  be  drunk  whilst  I  live  again,  but  in  honest, 
civil,  godly  company,  for  this  trick :  If  I  be  drunk,  I'll  be 
drunk  with  those  that  have  the  fear  of  God,  and  not  with 
di'unken  knaves. 

Eva.    So  Got  'udge  me,  that  is  a  virtuous  mind. 


Act  1.1  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  135 

Fal.  You  liear  all  these  matters  denied,  gentlemea,  you 
hear  it. 

Enter  Mistress  Anne  Page,  with  wine  ;  Mistress  Ford 
and  Mistress  Page  following. 

Page.  Nay,  daughter,  carry  the  wine  in  ;  we'll  drink 
within  [Exit  Anne  Page. 

Slen.    0  heaven !  this  is  mistress  Anne  Page. 

Page.    How  now,  mistress  Ford  ? 

Fal.  Mistress  Ford,  by  my  troth,  you  are  very  well  met : 
by  your  leave,  good  mistress.  \_kissing  he)'. 

Page.  Wife,  bid  these  gentlemen  welcome  :  —  Come,  we 
have  a  hot  venison  pasty  to  dinner ;  come,  gentlemen,  I 
hope  we  shall  drink  down  all  unkindness. 

[Exeunt  all  hut  Shal.,  Slender,  and  Evans. 

Slcn.  I  had  rather  than  forty,  shillings  I  had  my  book 
of  Songs  and  Sonnets  here  :  — 

Enter  Simple. 

How  now,  Simple  !  where  have  you  been  ?  I  must  wait  on 
myself,  must  I  ?  You  have  not  The  Book  of  Riddles  about 
you,  have  you  ? 

Sim.  Book  of  Riddles  !  why,  did  you  not  lend  it  to  Alice 
Shortcake  upon  Allhallowmas  last,  a  fortnight  afore  Mi- 
chaelmas ? 

Shal.  Come,  coz  ;  come,  coz  ;  Ave  stay  for  you.  A  word 
with  you,  coz  :  marry  this,  coz  :  There  is,  as  'twere,  a  tender, 
a  kind  of  tender,  made  afar  off  by  Sir  Hugh  here ;  —  Do 
you  understand  me  ? 

Slen.  Ay,  sir,  you  shall  find  me  reasonable ;  if  it  be  so, 
I  shall  do  that  that  is  reason. 

Shal.    Nay,  but  understand  me. 

Slen.    So  I  do,  sir. 

Eva.  Give  ear  to  his  motions,  master  Slender;  I  will 
description  the  matter  to  you,  if  you  be  capacity  of  it. 

Slen.  Nay,  I  will  do  as  my  cousin  Shallow  says :  I  pray 
you,  pardon  me ;  he's  a  justice  of  peace  in  his  country, 
simple  though  I  stand  here. 

Eva.  But  this  is  not  the  question ;  the  question  is  con- 
cerning your  marriage. 

Shal.    Ay,  there's  the  point,  sir. 

Eva.  Marry,  is  it;  the  very  point  of  it;  to  Mistress 
Anne  Page. 

Slen.  Why,  if  it  be  so,  I  will  marry  her  upon  any  reason- 
able  demands. 

Eva.   But  can  you  affection  the  'oman  ?    Let  us  command 


136  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  [Act  1 

to  knew  that  of  your  mouth,  or  vjf  your  lij)S ;  for  divers 
philosophers  hokl  that  the  lips  is  parcel  of  the  mouth;  — 
Therefore,  precisely,  can  you  carry  your  good  will  to  the 
maid  ? 

Shal.    Cousin  Abraham  Slender,  can  you  love  her  ? 

Slen.  I  hope,  sir,  —  I  will  do  as  it  shall  become  one  that 
would  do  reason. 

Mva.  Nay,  Got's  lords  and  his  ladies,  you  must  speak 
possitable,  if  you  can  carry  her  your  desires  towards  her. 

Shal.  That  you  must :  Will  you,  upon  good  dowry,  marry 
her  ? 

jSlen.  I  will  do  a  greater  thing  than  that,  upon  your 
request,  cousin,  in  any  reason. 

Shal.  Nay,  conceive  me,  conceive  me,  sweet  coz ;  what  1 
do  is  to  pleasure  you,  coz :  Can  you  love  the  maid  ? 

Slen.  I  will  marry  her^  sir,  at  your  request ;  but  if  there 
be  no  great  love  in  the  beginning,  yet  heaven  may  decrease 
it  upon  better  acquaintance,  when  we  are  married,  and  have 
more  occasion  to  know  one  another  :  I  hope  upon  familiarity 
will  grow  more  contempt :  but  if  you  say,  marry  her,  I  will 
marry  her,  that  I  am  freely  dissolved,  and  dissolutely. 

Eva.  It  is  a  fery  discretion  answer ;  save  the  faul'  is  in 
the  'ort  dissolutely :  the  'ort  is,  according  to  our  meaning, 
resolutely ;  —  his  meaning  is  good. 

Shal.    Ay,  I  think  my  cousin  meant  well. 

Slen.    Ay,  or  else  I  would  I  might  be  hanged,  la. 

Re-enter  Anne  Page. 

Shal.  Here  comes  fair  mistress  Anne  :  — Would  I  were 
young  for  your  sake,  mistress  Anne  ! 

Anne.  The  dinner  is  on  the  taWe ;  my  father  desires 
your  worships'  company. 

Shal.     I  will  wait  on  him,  fair  mistress  Anne ! 

Eva.  Od's  plessed  will !  I  will  not  be  absence  at  the 
grace.  [Exeunt  Shallow  and  Sir  H.  Evans. 

Anne.    Will't  please  your  worship  to  come  in,  sir  ? 

Slen.    No,  I  thank  you,  forsooth,  heartily;  I  am  very  well. 

Anne.    The  dinner  attends  you,  sir. 

Slen.  I  am  not  a-hungry,  I  thank  you,  forsooth :  Go, 
sirrah,  for  all  you  are  my  man,  go,  wait  upon  my  cousin 
Shallow.  [Exit  Simple.]  A  juscice  of  peace  sometime 
may  be  beholden  to  his  friend  for  a  man :  —  I  keep  but 
three  men  and  a  boy  yet,  till  my  mother  be  dead :  But 
wiiat  though  ?    yet  I  live  like  a  poor  gentleman  born. 

Anne.  I  may  not  go  in  without  your  worship:  they  will 
not  sit  till  you  come. 


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ActL]  merry  wives   OE  WINDSOR.  137 

Slen.  I'faith,  I'll  eat  nothing ;  I  thank  you  as  much  as 
though  I  did. 

Anne.    I  pray  you,  sir,  walk  in. 

Slen.  I  had  rather  walk  here,  I  thank  you :  I  bruised  my 
shin  the  other  day  with  playing  at  sword  and  dagger  with  a 
master  of  fence,  three  veneys  for  a  dish  of  stewed  prunes ; 
and,  by  my  troth,  I  cannot  abide  the  smell  of  hot  meat  since. 
Why  do  your  dogs  bark  so  ?  be  there  bears  i'  the  town  ? 

Anne.    I  think  there  are,  sir ;  I  heard  thern  talked  of. 

Slen.  I  love  the  sport  well ;  but  I  shall  as  soon  quarrel 
at  it  as  any  man  in  England :  —  You  are  afraid  if  you  see 
the  bear  loose,  are  you  not? 

Anne.    Ay,  indeed,  sir. 

Slen.  That's  meat  and  drink  to  me,  now :  I  have  seen 
Sackerson  loose  twenty  times ;  and  have  taken  him  by  the 
chain:  but,  I  warrant  you,  the  women  have  so  cried  and 
shrieked  at  it,  that  it  passed :  —  but  women,  indeed,  cannot 
abide  'em ;  they  are  very  ill-favored,  rough  things. 

Re-enter  Page. 

Page.  Come,  gentle  master  Slender,  come ;  we  stay  for  you. 

Slen.    I'll  eat  nothing ;    I  thank  you,  sir. 

Page.  By  cock  and  pye,  you  shall  not  choose,  sir ;  come, 
come. 

Slen.   Nay,  pray  you,  lead  the  way. 

Page.    Come  on,  sir. 

Slen.    Mistress  Anne,  yourself  shall  go  first. 

Anne.    Not  I,  sir ;    pray  you,  keep  on. 

Slen.  Truly,  I  will  not  go  first,  truly,  la :  I  will  not  do 
you  that  wrong. 

Anne.    I  pray  you,  sir. 

Slen.  I'll  rather  be  unmannerly  than  troublesome :  you 
do  yourself  wrong,  indeed,  la.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.     The  same. 
Enter  Sir  Hugh  Evans  and  Simple. 

Eva.  Go  your  ways,  and  ask  of  Doctor  Caius'  house, 
which  is  the  way :  and  there  dwells  one  mistress  Quickly, 
"which  is  in  the  manner  of  his  nurse,  or  his  dry  nurse,  or  his 
cook,  or  his  laundry,  his  washer,  and  his  wringei'. 

Sim.    Well,  sir. 

Eva.   Nay,  it  is  petter  yet : give  her  this  letter  ;  for 

It  is  a  'oman  tliat  aUogcthcr's  acrjuaintance  with  mistress 
Anne  Page ;  and  the  letter  is,  to  desire  and  require  her  to 

M* 


138  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  [Act  I 

solicit  youv  master's  desires  to  mistress  Anne  Page  :  I  pray 
jou,  be  gone.  I  will  make  an  end  of  my  dinner ;  there's 
pippins  and  cheese  to  come.  [IHxeimf. 

SCENE  III.     A  Boom  in  the  Garter  Inn. 

Enter  Falstaff,  Host,  Bardolph,  Nym,  Pistol,  and 
Robin. 

Fal.    Mine  host  of   the  Garter, — 

Host.  What  says  my  bully-rook  ?  Speak  scholarly,  and 
wisely. 

Fal.  Truly,  mine  host,  I  must  turn  away  some  of  my 
followers. 

Host.  Discard,  bully  Hercules  ;  cashier  ;  let  them  wag  ; 
trot,  trot. 

Fal.    I  sit  at  ten  pounds  a  week. 

Host.  Thou'rt  an  emperor,  Caesar,  Keisar,  and  Pheezar. 
I  Avill  entertain  Bardolph ;  he  shall  draw,  he  shall  tap :  said 
I  well,  bully  Hector  ? 

Fal.    Do  so,  good  mine  host. 

Host.  I  have  spoke ;  let  him  follow :  Let  me  see  thee 
froth,  and  lime  :  I  am  at  a  Avord  ;  follow.  [Exit  Host. 

Fal.  Bardolph,  follow  him  ;  a  tapster  is  a  good  trade :  an 
old  cloak  makes  a  new  jerkin ;  a  withered  serving-man  a 
fresh  tapster :   Go  ;  adieu. 

Bard.    It  is  a  life  that  I  have  desired ;  I  will  thrive. 

[Exit  Bard. 

Pist.    0  base  Gongarian  wight !  wilt  thou  the  spigot  wield  ? 

Nym.  He  was  gotten  in  drink:  Is  not  the  humour  con- 
ceited ?    His  mind  is  not  heroic,  and  there's  the  humour  of  it. 

Fal.  I  am  glad  I  am  so  aoquit  of  tltis  tinder-box;  his 
thefts  were  too  open :  his  filching  was  like  an  unskilful 
singer,  he  kept  not  time. 

Nym.    The  good  humour  is,  to  steal  at  a  minute's  rest. 

Pist.  Convey,  the  wise  it  call :  Steal !  foh :  a  fico  for 
the  phrase  ! 

Fal.    W^ell,  sirs,  I  am  almost  out  at  heels. 

Pist.    Why,  then,  let  kibes  ensue. 

Fal.  There  is  no  remedy ;  I  must  cony-catch ;  I  must  shift. 

Pist.    Young  ravens  must  have  food. 

Fal.    Which  of  you  know  Ford  of  this  town  ? 

Pist.    I  ken  the  wight ;  he  is  of  substance  good. 

Fal.    My  honest  lads,  I  will  tell  you  what  I  am  about. 

Pist.    Two  yards,  and  more. 

Fal.  No  quips  now.  Pistol ;  indeed  I  am  in  the  waist  two 
yards  about  ;  but  I  am  now  about  no  waste  ;  I  am  about 


Act  LJ  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  13P 

thrift.  Briefly,  I  do  mean  to  make  love  to  Ford's  wife ;  I 
spy  entertainment  in  her ;  she  discourses,  she  carves,  she 
gives  the  leer  of  invitation :  I  can  construe  the  action  of  her 
familiar  style  ;  and  the  hardest  voice  of  her  behavior,  to  be 
Englished  rightly,  is,  I  am  Sir  Jolin  Fahtaff's. 

Pist.  He  hath  studied  her  well,  and  translated  her  well; 
out  of  honesty  into  English. 

Nym.    The  anchor  is  deep  ;  will  that  humor  pass  ? 

Fal.  Now,  the  report  goes,  she  has  all  the  rule  of  her 
husband's  purse ;  she  hath  legions  of  angels. 

Pist.    As  many  devils  entertain  ;  and,  To  her^  hoy,  say  I. 

Nym.    The  humor  rises;  it  is  good;  humor  me  the  angels. 

Fal.  I  have  writ  me  here  a  letter  to  her :  and  here  an- 
other to  Page's  wife  ;  who  even  now  gave  me  good  eyes  too, 
examined  my  parts  with  most  judicious  eyelids :  sometimes 
the  beam  of  her  view  gilded  my  foot,  sometimes  my  portly 
belly. 

Fist.    Then  did  the  sun  on  dunghill  shine. 

Nym.    I  thank  thee  for  that  humor. 

Fal.  0,  she  did  so  course  o'er  my  exteriors  with  such  a 
greedy  intention,  that  the  appetite  of  her  eye  did  seem  to 
scorch  me  up  like  a  burning-glass !  Here's  another  letter 
to  her :  she  bears  the  purse  too :  she  is  a  region  in  Guiana, 
all  gold  and  bounty.  I  will  be  cheater  to  them  both,  and 
they  shall  be  exchequers  to  me  ;  they  shall  be  ray  East  and 
West  Indies,  and  I  will  trade  to  them  both.  Go,  bear  thou 
this  letter  to  mistress  Page  ;  and  thou  this  to  mistress  Ford: 
we  Avill  thrive,  lads,  we  Avill  thrive. 

Fist.    Shall  I  Sir  Pandarus  of  Troy  become. 
And  by  my  side  wear  steel  ?   then,  Lucifer  take  all ! 

Nym.  I  will  run  no  base  humor ;  here,  take  the  humor- 
letter  :    I  will  keep  the  'havior  of  reputation. 

Fal.  Hold,  sirrah,  [to  Rob,]  bear  you  these  letters  tightly; 
Sail  like  my  pinnace  to  these  golden  shores. — 
Rogues,  hence,  avaunt !    vanish  like  hailstones,  go ; 
Trudge,  plod,  away,  o'  the  hoof ;    seek  shelter,  pack ! 
Falstaff  will  learn  the  humor  of  this  age, 
French  thrift,  you  rogues ;    myself,  and  skirted  page. 

[Exeunt  Falstaff  and  Robin. 

Pist.    Let  vultures  gripe  thy  guts  !  for  gourd  and  fullam 
holds. 
And  high  and  low  beguile  the  rich  and  poor : 
Tester  I'll  have  in  pouch,  when  thou  si' alt  lack, 
Base  Phrygian  Turk  ! 

Nym.  I  have  operations  in  my  head,  which  be  humors 
of  revenge. 


110  xMERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  [Act  1 

Pint.    Wilt  thou  revenge  ? 
Ni/m.    By  welkin,  and  hei^  star ! 
Fist.    AVith  wit,  or  steel? 
]Vi/)n.    With  both  the  humors,  I : 
I  will  discuss  the  humor  of  this  love  to  Page. 
Fist.    And  I  to  Ford  shall  eke  unfold. 
How  Falstaff,  varlet  vile, 
His  dove  will  prove,  his  gold  will  hold. 
And  his  soft  couch  defile. 
N^i/m.    My  humor  shall  not  cool:   I  will  incense  Page  to 
deal  with  poison ;  I  will  possess  him  with  yellowness,  for 
the  revolt  of  mien  is  dangerous :  that  is  my  true  humor. 

Pist.  Thou  art  the  Mars  of  malcontents :  I  second  thee ; 
troop  on.  \_Uxeunt. 

SCENE  IV.     A  Boom  in  Dr.  Caius's  House. 
JEnter  Mrs.  Quickly,  Simple,  and  Rugby. 

Quick.  What ;  John  Rugby !  —  I  pray  thee,  go  to  the 
easement,  and  see  if  you  can  see  my  master,  master  Doctor 
Caius,  coming :  if  he  do,  i'  faith,  and  find  any  body  in  the 
house,  here  will  be  an  old  abusing  of  God's  patience,  and  the 
king's  English. 

Bug.    I'll  go  watch.  [Exit  Rugby. 

Quick.  Go ;  and  we'll  have  a  posset  for't  soon  at  night, 
in  faith,  at  the  latter  end  of  a  sea-coal  fire.  —  An  honest, 
walling,  kind  fellow,  as  ever  servant  shall  come  in  house 
withal ;  and,  I  warrant  you,  no  tell-tale,  nor  no  breed-bate  : 
his  worst  fault  is,  that  he  is  given  to  prayer ;  he  is  something 
peevish  that  way :  but  nobody  but  has  his  fault ;  —  but  let 
that  pass.     Peter  Simple,  you  say,  your  name  is  ? 

Sim.    Aj,  for  a  fault  of  a  better. 

Quick.    And  master  Slender's  your  master  ? 

Sim.    Ay,  forsooth. 

Quick.  Does  he  not  wear  a  great  round  beard,  like  a 
glover's  paring  knife  ? 

Sim.  No,  forsooth :  he  hath  but  a  little  wee  face,  with  a 
little  yellow  beard  ;  a  Cain-colored  beard. 

Quick.    A  softly-sprighted  man,  is  he  not  ? 

Sim.  Ay,  forsooth :  but  he  is  as  tall  a  man  of  his  hands, 
as  any  is  between  this  and  his  head ;  he  hath  fought  with  a 
warrener. 

Quick.  How  say  you  ?  —  0,  I  should  remember  him  ; 
Does  he  not  hold  up  his  head  as  it  were  ?  and  strut  in  his 
gait  ? 


Act  I.]  MEUm    WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  141 

Sim.    Yes,  indeed,   does  he. 

Quick.  Well,  heaven  send  Anne  Page  no  worse  fortune  ? 
Tell  master  parson  Evans,  I  will  do  what  I  can  for  your 
master :  Anne  is  a  good  girl,  and  I  wish 

Re-enter  Rugby. 

Rug.    Out,  alas  !  here  comes  my  master. 

Quick.  We  shall  all  be  shent :  Run  in  here,  good  young 
man;  go  into  this  closet.  \_Shuts  Simple  in  the  closet.']  He 
will  not  stay  long.  —  What,  John  Rugby !  John,  what,  John, 
I  say  !  —  Go,  John,  go  inquire  for  my  master  ;  I  doubt,  he 
be  not  well,  that  he  comes  not  home:  —  and  doivn,  down, 
adown-a,  ^c.  ISings. 

Enter  Doctor  Oaius. 

Cuius.  Vat  is  you  sing  ?  I  do  not  like  dese  toys  ;  Pray 
you,  go  and  vetch  me  in  my  closet  un  hoitier  verd ;  a  box, 
a  green-a  box ;  Do  intend  vat  I  speak  ?  a-green-a  box. 

Quick.  Ay,  forsooth,  I'll  fetch  it  you.  I  am  glad  he 
went  not  in  himself;  if  he  had  found  the  young  man,  he 
would  have  been  horn-mad.  [^Aside. 

Oaius.  Fe,  fe,  fe,  fe  !  mai  foi,  il  fait  fort  cTiaud.  Je 
rnen  vais  a  la  Cour,  —  la  grande  affaire. 

Quick.    Is  it  this,  sir  ? 

Gains.  Ouy  ;  mette  le  au  mon  pocket ;  Bepeche  ;  quickly : 
—  Vere  is  dat  knave  Rugby? 

Quick.    What,  John  Rugby  !  John ! 

Rug.    Here,  sir. 

Caius.  You  are  John  Rugby,  and  you  are  Jack  Rugby : 
Come,  take  a-your  rapier,  and  come  after  my  heel  to  de 
court. 

Rug.    'Tis  ready,  sir,  here  in  the  porch. 

Caius.  By  my  trot,  I  tarry  too  long  :  —  Od's  me  !  Quay 
foublit  ?  dere  is  some  simples  in  my  closet,  that  I  vill  not 
for  the  varld  I  shall  leave  behind. 

Quick.  Ah  me !  he'll  find  the  young  man  there,  and  be 
mad. 

Caius.  0  diahle,  diable  !  vat  is  in  my  closet  ?  —  Villany  ? 
larron  !    [Pulling  Simple  out.']     Rugby,  my  rapier. 

Quick.    Good  master,  be  content. 

Caius.    Verefore  shall  I  be  content-a? 

Quick.    The  young  man  is  an  honest  man. 

Caius.  Vat  shall  the  honest  man  do  in  my  closet  ?  dere 
is  no  honest  man  dat  shall  come  in  my  closet. 

Quick.  I  beseech  you,  be  not  so  flegmatic  ;  hear  the  truth 
of  it:   He  came  of  an  errand  to  me  from  pnrson  Hugh. 


142  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  [Act  L 

Caius.    Veil. 

Sim.    Ay,  forsooth,  to  desire  her  to 

Qui,-k.    Peace,  I  pray  you. 

Cains.    Peace-a  yov\r  tongue  :  —  Speak-a  your  tale.  _ 
Sim.    To  desire  this  honest  gentlewoman,  your  maid,  to 
speak  a  good  word  to  mistress  Anne  Page  for  my  master,  in 
the  way  of  marriage. 

Quick.  This  is  all,  indeed,  la  ;  but  I'll  ne'er  put  my  finger 
in  the  fire,  and  need  not. 

Caias.  Sir  Hugh  send-a  you  ?  —  Rugby,  baillez  me  some 
paper :  —  Tarry  you  a  little-awhile.  [  Writes. 

Quick.  I  am  glad  he  is  so  quiet :  if  he  had  been  thoroughly 
moved,  you  should  have  heard  him  so  loud,  and  so  melan- 
choly; —  But  notwithstanding,  man,  I'll  do  your  master 
what  good  I  can :  and  the  very  yea  and  the  no  is,  the 
French  doctor,  my  master,  —  I  may  call  him  my  master, 
look  you,  for  I  keep  his  house ;  and  I  wash,  wring,  brew, 
bake,  scour,  dress  meat  and  drink,  make  the  beds,  and  do 
all  myself ;  — 

Sim.  'Tis  a  great  charge,  to  come  under  one  body's  hand. 
Quick.  Are  you  avised  o'  that  ?  you  shall  find  it  a  great 
charge  :  and  to  be  up  early,  and  down  late  ;  —  but  notwith- 
standing (to  tell  you  in  your  ear ;  I  would  have  no  words  of 
it ;)  my  master  himself  is  in  love  with  mistress  Anne  Page : 
but  notwithstanding  that,  I  know  Anne's  mind, — that's 
neither  here  nor  there. 

Caius.  You  jack' nape ;  give-a  dis  letter  to  Sir  Hugh; 
by  gar,  it  is  a  shallenge :  ^-  vill  cut  his  treat  in  de  park ;  and 
I  vill  teach  a  scurvy  jack-a-nape  priest  to  meddle  or  make : 
—  you  may  be  gone;  it  is  not  good  you  tarry  here: — by 
gar,  I  vill  cut  all  his  two  stones ;  by  gar,  he  shall  not  have 
a  stone  to  trow  at  his  dog.  [JExit  Simple. 

Quick.  Alas,  he  speaks  but  for  his  friend. 
Caius.  It  is  no  matter-a  for  dat:  —  do  not  you  tell-a  me 
dat  I  shall  have  Anne  Page  for  myself?  — by  gar,  I  vill 
kill  de  Jack  priest ;  and  I  have  appointed  mine  host  of  de 
Jarterre  to  measure  our  weapon : — by  gar,  I  vill  myself 
liave  Anne  Page. 

Quick.  Sir,  the  maid  loves  you,  and  all  shall  be  well :  we 
must  give  folks  leave  to  prate  :  What,  the  good-jcr  ! 

Cairn.  Rugby,  come  to  the  court  vid  me ;  —  By  gar,  if  I 
have  not  Anne  Page,  I  shall  turn  your  head  out  of  my 
door  :  —  Follow  my  heels,  Rugby. 

\_Exeunt  Caius  and  Rugby. 

Quick.    You  shall  have  xVn  fools-head  of  your  own. ^    No, 

I  know  Annie's  mind  for  that :  never  a  woman  in  Windsor 


Act  l.J  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  I43 

itnoATS  more  of  Annie's  mind  tlian  I  do ;  nor  can  do  more 
than  I  do  vrith  her,  I  thank  heaven. 

Fent.    \_Within.']     Who's  within  there,  ho? 

Quick.  Who's  there,  I  trow  ?  Come  near  the  house,  I 
pray  you. 

Enter  Fenton. 

Fent.    How  now,  good  woman :  how  dost  thou  ? 

QuicJc.  The  better,  that  it  pleases  your  good  worship 
to  ask. 

Fe7it.    What  news  ?  how  does  pretty  mistress  Anne  ? 

QuicJc.  In  truth,  sir,  and  she  is  pretty,  and  honest,  and 
gentle ;  and  one  that  is  your  friend,  I  can  tell  you  that  by 
the  way ;  I  praise  heaven  for  it. 

Fent.  Shall  I  do  any  good,  thinkest  thou  ?  Shall  I  not 
lose  my  suit  ? 

Quick.  Troth,  sir,  all  is  in  his  hands  above :  but  notwith- 
standing, master  Fenton,  I'll  be  sworn  on  a  book,  she  lovea 
you :  —  Have  not  your  worship  a  wart  above  your  eye  ? 

Fent.    Yes,  marry,  have  I ;  what  of  that  ? 

Quick.  Well,  thereby  hangs  a  tale ;  —  good  faith,  it  is 
such  another  Nan:  —  but,  I  detest,  an  honest  maid  as  ever 
broke  bread:  —  W^e  had  an  hour's  talk  of  that  wart;  —  I 
shall  never  laugh  but  in  that  maid's  company ! — But,  indeed, 
she  is  given  too  much  to  allicholy  and  musing :  But  for  you 
— Well,  go  to. 

Fent.  Well,  I  shall  see  her  to-day :  Hold,  there's  money 
for  thee ;  let  me  have  thy  voice  in  my  behalf:  if  thou  secst 
her  before  me,  commend  me  — 

Quick.  Will  I  ?  i'  faith,  that  we  will :  and  I  will  tell  your 
worship  more  of  the  wart,  the  next  time  we  have  confidence ; 
and  of  other  wooers. 

Fent.    Well,  farewell ;  I  am  in  great  haste  now.      {^Fxit. 

Quick.  Farewell  to  your  worship.  —  Truly,  an  honest 
gentleman;  but  Anne  loves  him  not;  for  I  know  Anne's 
mind  as  well  as  another  does :  Out  upon't '  what  have  I 
forgot  ?  [Frit. 


Hi  MEllRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOli  [kcTll 


ACT    II. 

SCENE  I.     Before  Page's  Rouse. 
Enter  Mistress  Page,  with  a  letter. 

Mrs.  Page.  What !  have  I  'scaped  love-letters  in  the 
holy-day  time  of  my  beauty,  and  am  I  now  a  subject  for 
them  ?   Let  me  see  :  [Reads. 

Ash  me  no  reason  why  I  love  you  ;  for  though  love  use 
reason  for  his  precisian,  he  admits  hi7n  not  for  his  counsel- 
lor :  You  are  not  young,  no  more  am  I ;  go  to  then,  there's 
sympathy :  you  are  merry,  so  am  I ;  Ha  !  ha  !  then  there  s 
more  sympathy :  you  love  sack,  and  so  do  J;  would  you 
desire  better  sympathy  9  Let  it  suffice  thee,  mistress  Page, 
{at  the  least,  if  the  love  of  a  soldier  can  suffice,)  that  I  love 
thee.  I  will  not  say,  pity  me;  'tis  not  a  soldier-like  phrase ; 
but  I  say,  love  me.     By  me, 

Thine  own  true  knight, 

By  day  or  night, 

Or  any  kind  of  light, 

With  all  his  might 

For  thee  to  fight, 

John  Falstaff. 

What  a  Herod  of  Jewry  is  this  ! — 0  wicked,  wicked  world ! 
—  one  that  is  well  nigh  worn  to  pieces  with  age,  to  show 
himself  a  young  gallant !  What  an  unweighed  behavior  hath 
this  Flemish  drunkard  picked  (with  the  devil's  name)  out  of 
my  conversation,  that  he  dares  in  this  manner  assay  me  ? 
Why,  he  hath  not  been  thrice  in  my  company !  — What 
should  I  say  to  him  ?  —  I  was  then  frugal  of  my  mirth  :  •^— 
heaven  forgive  me! — Why,  I'll  exhibit  a  bill  in  the  parlia- 
ment for  the  putting  down  of  fat  men.  How  shall  I  be  re- 
venged on  him  ?  for  revenged  I  will  be,  as  sure  as  his  guts 
are  made  of  puddings. 

Enter  Mistress  Ford. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Mistress  Page !  trust  me,  I  was  going  to  yotir 
house. 

Mrs.  Page.  And,  trust  me,  I  was  coming  to  you.  You 
look  very  ill. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  I'll  ne'er  believe  that ;  I  have  to  show 
to  the  contrary. 

Mrs.  Page.  'Faith,  but  you  do,  in  my  mind. 


Act  ]1.]  merry  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  145 

3frs.  Ford.  "Well,  T  do  then ;  yet,  I  say,  I  could  show 
you  to  the  contrary:  0,  mistress  Page,  give  me  some  counsel' 

Mrs.  Page.    What's  the  matter,  woman  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  0  woman,  if  it  were  not  for  one  trifling 
respect,  I  could  come  to  such  honor  ! 

Mrs.  Page.  Hang  the  trifle,  woman ;  take  the  honor : 
What  is  it  ? —  dispense  with  trifles  ;  — what  is  it  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  If  I  would  but  go  to  hell  for  an  eternal  mo- 
ment, or  so,  I  could  be  knighted. 

3Irs.  Page.    AYhat  ?— thou  liest !  —  Sir  Alice  Ford  ! 

These  knights  will  hack ;  and  so  thou  should'st  not  alter  the 
article  of  thy  gentry. 

3Irs.  Ford.  We  burn  day-light :  here,  read,  read ; — per- 
ceive how  I  might  be  knighted. — I  shall  think  the  worse  of 
fat  men,  as  long  as  I  have  an  eye  to  make  difi"erence  of  men's 
liking :  And  yet  he  would  not  swear  ;  praised  woman's  mod- 
esty :  and  gave  such  orderly  and  well-behaved  reproof  to  all 
uncomeliness,  that  I  would  have  sworn  his  disposition  would 
have  gone  to  the  truth  of  his  words :  but  they  do  no  more 
adhere  and  keep  place  together,  than  the  hundreth  psalm  to 
the  tune  of  Green  sleeves.  What  tempest,  I  trow,  threw  this 
whale,  with  so  many  tuns  of  oil  in  his  belly,  ashore  at  Wind- 
sor ?  How  shall  I  be  revenged  on  him  ?  I  think,  the  best 
way  were  to  entertain  him  with  hope,  till  the  wicked  fire  of 
lust  have  melted  him  in  his  own  grease. — Did  you  ever  hear 
the  like  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Letter  for  letter  ;  but  that  the  name  of  Page 
and  Ford  difi'ers  !  — To  thy  great  comfort  in  this  mystery 
of  ill  opinions,  here's  the  twin  brother  of  thy  letter :  but  let 
thine  inherit  first ;  for,  I  protest,  mine  never  shall.  I  war- 
rant he  hath  a  thousand  of  these  letters,  writ  with  blank 
space  for  different  names,  (sure  more,)  and  these  are  of  the 
second  edition :  He  wull  print  them  out  of  doubt :  for  he 
cares  not  what  he  puts  into  the  press,  when  he  would  put 
us  two.  I  had  rather  be  a  giantess,  and  lie  under  mount 
Pelion.  W^ell,  I  will  find  you  twenty  lascivious  turtles,  ere 
one  chaste  man. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why,  this  is  the  very  same ;  the  very  hand, 
the  very  words  :  W  hat  doth  he  think  of  us  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Nay,  I  know  not :  It  makes  me  almost  ready 
to  wrangle  with  mine  own  honesty.  I'll  entertain  myself 
like  one  that  I  am  not  acquainted  w^ithal ;  for,  sure,  unless 
he  know  some  strain  in  me,  that  I  know  not  myself,  he 
would  never  have  boarded  me  in  his  fury. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Boarding,  call  you  it  ?  I'll  be  sure  to  keep 
him  above  deck. 

Vol.  I.  — 10  N 


146  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.         [Act  11. 

3Irs.  Page.  So  will  I ;  if  lie  come  under  my  hatches,  I'll 
never  to  sea  again.  Let's  be  revenged  on  him  :  let's  appoint 
him  a  meeting  ;  give  him  a  show  of  comfort  in  his  suit ;  and 
lead  him  on  with  a  fine-baited  delay,  till  he  hath  pawned  hia 
horses  to  mine  host  of  the  Garter. 

3Irs.  Ford.  Nay,  I  will  consent  to  act  any  villany  against 
him,  that  may  not  sully  the  chariness  of  our  honesty.  0,  that 
my  husband  saw  this  letter !  it  would  give  eternal  food  to 
his  jealousy, 

Mrs.  Page.  Why,  look,  where  he  comes ;  and  my  good 
man  too :  he's  as  far  from  jealousy,  as  I  am  from  giving  him 
cause ;  and  that,  I  hope,  is  an  unmeasurable  distance. 

Mr.^.  Ford.    You  are  the  happier  woman. 

Mrs.  Page.  Let's  consult  together  against  this  greasy 
knight:  Come  hither.  \_They  retire. 

Enter  Ford,  Pistol,  Page,  and  Nym. 

Ford.    Well,  I  hope  it  be  not  so. 

Pist.  Hope  is  a  curtail  dog  in  some  affairs :  Sir  John 
affects  thy  wife. 

Ford.    Why,  sir,  my  wife  is  not  young. 

Pist.    He  woos  both  high  and  low,  both  rich  and  poor, 
Both  young  and  old,  one  with  another,  Ford : 
He  loves  the  gally-rnawfry ;  Ford,  perpend. 

Ford.    Love  my  wife  ? 

Pist.    With  liver  bm  ning  hot :  Prevent,  or  go  thou, 
Like  Sir  Action  he,  with  Ringwood  at  thy  heels : 
0,  odious  is  the  name  ! 

Ford.    What  name,  sir  ? 

Pist.    The  horn,  I  say :  Farewell. 
Take  heed ;  have  open  eye ;  for  thieves  do  foot  by  night ; 
Take  heed,  ere  summer  comes,  or  cuckoo  birds  do  sing. — 

Away,   Sir  corporal  Nym, 

"Believe  it.  Page ;  he  speaks  sense.  [Exit  PiSTOL. 

Ford.    I  will  be  patient ;  I  will  find  out  this. 

Nym.  And  this  is  true.  [Tb  Page,]  I  like  not  the 
humor  of  lying.  He  hath  wronged  me  in  some  humors ;  I 
should  have  borne  the  humored  letter  to  her :  but  I  have  a 
Bword,  and  it  shall  bite  upon  my  necessity.  He  loves  your 
wife ;  there's  the  short  and  the  long.  My  name  is  corporal 
Nym  ;  I  speak,  and  I  avouch,  'Tis  true  :  —  my  name  is 
Nym,  and  Falstaff  loves  your  wife.  —  Adieu  !  I  love  not  the 
humor  of  bread  and  cheese ;  and  there's  the  humor  of  it- 
Adieu.  [Exit  Nym. 

Page.  The  humor  of  it,  quoth'a  !  here's  a  fellow  frights 
humor  out  of  his  wits. 


Act  II.J         MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  147 

Ford.    I  will  seek  out  Falstaff. 

Page.    I  never  heard  such  a  drawling,  affecting  rogue. 

Ford.    If  I  do  find  it,  well. 

Page.  I  will  not  believe  such  a  Catalan,  though  the  priest 
of  the  town  commended  him  for  a  true  man. 

Ford.    'Twas  a  good,  sensible  fellow:  Well. 

Page.    How  now,  Meg  ? 

Mrs.  Page.    Whither  go  you,  George  ?  —  Hark  you. 

Mrs.  Ford.  How  now,  sweet  Frank  ?  why  art  thou  me- 
lancholy ? 

Ford.  I  melancholy  !  I  am  not  melancholy.  —  Get  you 
home,  go. 

Mrs.  Ford.  'Faith,  thou  hast  some  crotchets  in  thy  head 
now.  —  Will  you  go,  mistress  Page  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Have  with  you.  —  You'll  come  to  dinner, 
George  ?  —  Look,  who  comes  yonder  :  she  shall  be  our  mes- 
senger to  this  paltry  knight.  [^Aside  to  Mrs.  Ford. 

Filter  Mistress  Quickly, 

3Irs.  Ford.    Trust  me,  I  thought  on  her :  she'll  fit  it. 

Mrs.  Page.    You  are  come  to  see  my  daughter  Anne  ? 

Quick.  Ay,  forsooth:  And,  I  pray,  how  does  good  mis- 
tress Anne  ? 

Mrs.  Page.    Go  in  with  us,  and  see;  we  have  an  hour's 
talk  with  you. 
[Exeunt  Mrs.  Page,  Mrs.  Ford,  and  Mistress  Quickly. 

Page.    How  now,  master  Ford  ? 

Ford.    You  heard  what  this  knave  told  me ;  did  you  not  ? 

Page.    Yes  ;  and  you  heard  what  the  other  told  me  ? 

Ford.    Do  you  think  there  is  truth  in  them  ? 

Page.  Hang  'em,  slaves !  I  do  not  think  the  knight  would 
offer  it :  but  these  that  accuse  him  in  his  intent  towards  our 
wives,  are  a  yoke  of  his  discarded  men ;  very  rogues,  now 
they  be  out  of  service. 

Ford.    Were  they  his  men  ? 

Page.    Marry,  were  they. 

Ford.  I  like  it  never  the  better  for  that.  —  Does  he  lie 
at  the  Garter? 

Page.  Ay,  marry,  does  he.  If  he  should  intend  this 
voyage  towards  my  wife,  I  would  turn  her  loose  to  him ;  and 
what  he  gets  more  of  her  than  sharp  words,  let  it  lie  on  my 
head. 

Ford.  I  do  not  misdoubt  my  wife  ;  but  I  would  be  loath 
to  turn  them  together :  A  man  may  be  too  confident :  I 
would  have  nothing  lie  on  my  head;  I  cannot  be  thus 
satisfied. 


148  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.         [Act  II, 

Page.  Look,  where  my  ranting  host  of  the  Garter  comes: 
there  is  either  liquor  in  his  pate,  or  money  in  his  purse,  when 
1)0  looks  so  merrily.  —  How  now,  mine  host  ? 

Enter  Host  and  Shallow. 

Host.  How  now,  bully -re  jk  ?  thou'rt  a  gentleman :  cava- 
lero-justice,  I  say. 

SJial.  I  follow  mine  host,  I  follow.  —  Good  even,  and 
twenty  good  master  Page !  Master  Page,  will  you  go  with 
us  ?  we  have  sport  in  hand. 

Host.    Tell  him,  cavalero-justice  ;  tell  him,  bully-rook. 
Shal.    Sir,  there  is  a  fray  to  be  fought,  between  Sir  Hugh 
the  Welsh  priest,  and  Caius  the  French  doctor. 

Ford.  Good  mine  host  o'  the  Garter,  a  word  with  you. 
Eost.  What  say'st  thou,  bully-rook?  \_They  go  aside, 
Shal.  Will  you  [To  Page]  go  with  us  to  behold  it  ?  My 
merry  host  hath  had  the  measuring  of  their  weapons ;  and 
I  think  he  hath  appointed  them  contrary  places ;  for,  be- 
lieve me,  I  hear  the  parson  is  no  jester.  Hark,  I  will  tell 
you  what  our  sport  shall  be. 

Eost.  Hast  thou  no  suit  against  my  knight,  my  guest- 
cavalier  ? 

Ford.  None,  I  protest :  but  I'll  give  you  a  po-ttle  of  burnt 
sack  to  give  me  recourse  to  him,  and  tell  him,  my  name  is 
Brook  ;  only  for  a  jest. 

Host.   My  hand,  bully :  thou  shalt  have  egress  and  regress ; 
said  I  well  ?  and  thy  name  shall  be  Brook :  It  is  a  merry 
knight.  —  Will  you  go.  Cavaliers  ? 
Shal.    Have  with  you,  mine  host. 

Page.  I  have  heard,  the  Frenchman  hath  good  skill  isi 
his  rapier. 

Shal.    Tut,  sir,  I  could  have  told  you  more :   In  these 

times  you  stand  on  distance,  your  passes,  stoccadoes,  and  I 

know  not  what :   'tis  the  heart,  master  Page  :  'tis  here,  'tis 

here.     I  have  seen  the  time,  with  my  long  sword,  I  would 

have  made  you  four  tall  fellows  skip  like  rats. 

Host.    Here,  boys,  here,  here  I  shall  we  wag  ? 

Page.    Have  with  you  :  —  I  had  rather  hear  them  scold 

than  fight.  [Exeunt  Host,  Shal.  and  Page. 

Ford.    Though  Page  be  a  secure  fool,  and  stands  so  firmly 

on  his  wife's  frailty,  yet  I  cannot  put  off  my  opinion  so 

easily.    She  was  in  his  company  at  Page's  house  ;  and,  what 

they  "made  there,  I  know  not.     Well,  I  will  look  further 

into't :  and  I  have  a  disguise  to  sound  Falstafi":  If  I  find 

her  honest,  I  lose  not  my  labour  \  if  she  be  otherwise,  'tis 

labor  well  bestowed.  [^Exit. 


ACT  II.]         MERIIY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  149 

SCENE  XL     A  Room  in  the  G-arter  Inn. 
Enter  Falstaff  and  Pistol. 

Fal.    I  will  not  lend  thee  a  penny. 

Pist.    Wli}^,  then,  the  world's  mine  oyster, 
Which  I  with  sword  will  open. — 
I  will  retort  the  sum  in  equipage. 

Fal.  Not  a  penny.  I  have  been  content,  sir,  you  should 
lay  my  countenance  to  pawn :  I  have  grated  upon  my  good 
friends  for  three  reprieves  for  you  and  your  coach-fellow 
Nym  ;  or  else  you  had  looked  through  the  grate  like  a  gemini 
of  baboons.  I  am  damned  in  hell,  for  swearing  to  gentle- 
men my  friends,  you  were  good  soldiers,  and  tall  fellows : 
and  when  mistress  Bridget  lost  the  handle  of  her  fan,  I 
took't  upon  mine  honor,  thou  hadst  it  not. 

Pist.    Didst  thou  not  share  ?  hadst  thou  not  fifteen  penc«  ? 

Fal.  Reason,  you  rogue,  reason :  think'st  thou  I'll  en- 
danger my  soul  gratis  ?  At  a  word,  hang  no  more  about 
me  :  I  am  no  gibbet  for  you  :  —  go.  —  A  short  knife  and  a 
throng  ;  —  to  your  manor  of  Pickt-hatch,  go.  —  You'll  not 
bear  a  letter  for  me,  you  rogue  !  you  stand  upon  your  honor ! 
—  Why,  thou  unconfinable  baseness,  it  is  as  much  as  I  can 
do  to  keep  the  terms  of  my  honor  precise.  I,  I,  I  myself 
sometimes,  leaving  the  fear  of  heaven  on  the  left  hand,  and 
hiding  mine  honor  in  my  necessity,  am  fain  to  shuffle,  to 
hedge,  and  to  lurch  ;  and  yet  you,  rogue,  will  ensconce  your 
rags,  your  cat-a-mountain  looks,  your  red-lattice  phrases, 
and  your  bold-beating  oaths,  under  the  shelter  of  your 
honor  !     You  will  not  do  it,  you  ? 

Pist.    I  do  relent ;   what  would' st  thou  more  of  man  ? 

Enter  Robin. 
lloh.    Sir,  here's  a  woman  would  speak  with  you. 
Fal.    Let  her  approach. 

Enter  Mistress  Quickly. 

Quick.    Give  your  worship  good-morrow. 

Fal.    Good-morrow,  good  wife. 

Quick.    Not  so,  an't  please  your  worship. 

Fal.    Good  maid,  then. 

Quick.    I'll  be  sworn ;  as  my  mother  was,  the  first  hour 
I  was  born. 

Fal.    I  do  believe  the  swearer :   What  with  nic  ? 

Quick.    Shall  I  vouchsafe  your  worship  a  word  or  two  ? 

Fal.  Two  thousand,  fair  woman ;  and  I'll  vouchsafe  thee 
tUo  hearing. 

N* 


150  MERRY  WIVES  OF  Wm  DSOR.         [Act  D 

Quick.  There  is  one  Mistress  Ford,  sir ; — I  pray,  come  a 
little  nearer  this  ways : — 1  myself  dwell  with  master  doctor 
Cains. 

Fal.    Well,  on :  Mistress  Ford,  you  say, 

Quick.  Your  worship  says  very  trae : — I  pray  your  wor- 
ship, come  a  little  nearer  this  ways. 

Fal.  I  warrant  thee,  nobody  hears  ;  —  mine  own  people, 
mine  own  people. 

Quick.  Are  they  so  ?  Heaven  bless  them,  and  make 
them  his  servants ! 

Fal.    Well :  mistress  Ford :  —  what  of  her  ? 

Quick.  W^hy,  sir,  she's  a  good  creature.  Lord,  Lord ! 
your  worship's  a  wanton :  Well,  heaven  forgive  you,  and  all 
•of  us,  I  pray  ! 

Fal.   Mistress  Ford  :  —  come,  mistress  Ford, — 

Quick.  Marry,  this  is  the  short  and  the  long  of  it ;  you 
have  brought  her  into  such  a  canaries  as  'tis  wonderful.  The 
best  courtier  of  them  all,  when  the  court  lay  at  Windsor, 
could  never  have  brought  her  to  such  a  canary.  Yet  there 
has  been  knights,  and  lords,  and  gentlemen,  with  their 
coaches  ;  I  warrant  you,  coach  after  coach,  letter  after  letter, 
gift  after  gift ;  smelling  so  sweetly,  (all  musk,)  and  so  rush- 
ling,  I  warrant  you,  in  silk  and  gold ;  and  in  such  alligant 
terms  ;  and  in  such  wine  and  sugar  of  the  best,  and  the  fair- 
est, that  would  have  won  any  woman's  heart ;  and,  I  warrant 
you,  they  could  never  get  an  eye-wink  of  her. — I  had  myself 
twenty  angels  given  me  this  morning  :  but  I  defy  all  angels, 
(in  any  such  sort,  as  they  say,)  but  in  the  way  of  hone.-^ty ; 
—  and,  I  warrant  you,  they  could  never  get  her  so  much  as 
sip  on  a  cup  with  the  proudest  of  them  all :  and  yet  there 
has  been  earls,  nay,  which  is  more,  pensioners;  but  I  war- 
rant you,  all  is  one  with  her. 

Fal.  But  what  says  she  to  me  ?  be  brief,  my  good  she 
Mercury. 

Quick.  Marry,  she  hath  received  your  letter ;  for  the 
which  she  thanks  you  a  thousand  times :  and  she  gives  you 
to  notify,  that  her  husband  will  be  absence  from  his  house 
between  ten  and  eleven. 

Fal.    Ten  and  eleven? 

Quick.  Ay,  forsooth ;  and  then  you  may  come  and  see 
the  picture,  she  says,  that  you  wot  of ;  —  master  Ford,  her 
husband,  will  be  from  home.  Alas  !  the  sweet  woman  leads 
an  ill  life  with  him  ;  he's  a  very  jealousy  man  ;  she  leads  a 
very  frampold  life  Avith  him,  good  heart. 

Fal.  Ten  and  eleven :  Woman,  commend  me  to  her ;  I 
will  not  fail  her. 


Act  II  ]         MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  151 

Quick.  Why,  you  say  well : — But  I  have  anothei"  messen- 
ger to  your  worship  :  Mrs.  Page  hath  her  hearty  commenda- 
tions to  you,  too ; — and  let  me  tell  you  in  your  ear,  she's  aa 
fartuous  a  civil  modest  wife,  and  one  (I  tell  you)  that  will 
not  miss  you  morning  nor  evening  prayer,  as  any  is  in  Wind- 
sor, whoe'er  be  the  other:  and  she  bade  me  tell  your  worship, 
that  her  husband  is  seldom  from  home ;  but  she  hopes  there 
will  come  a  time.  I  never  knew  a  woman  so  dote  upon  a 
man;  surely,  I  think  you  have  charms,  la ;  yes,  in  truth. 

Fal.  Not  I,  I  assure  thee ;  setting  the  attraction  of  my 
good  parts  aside,  I  have  no  other  charms. 

Quick.    Blessing  on  your  heart  for't ! 

Fal.  But,  I  pray  thee,  tell  me  this  :  Has  Ford's  wife,  and 
Page's  wife,  acquainted  each  other  how  they  love  me  ? 

Quick.  That  were  a  jest,  indeed  ! — they  have  not  so  little 
grace,  I  hope  :  —  that  were  a  trick,  indeed  !  But  mistress 
Page  would  desire  you  to  send  her  your  little  page  of  all 
loves ;  her  husband  has  a  marvellous  infection  to  the  little 
page ;  and,  truly,  master  Page  is  an  honest  man.  Never  a 
wife  in  Windsor  leads  a  better  life  than  she  does ;  do  what 
she  will,  say  what  she  will,  take  all,  pay  all,  go  to  bed  when 
she  list,  rise  when  she  list,  all  is  as  she  will ;  and,  truly,  she 
deserves  it :  for  if  there  be  a  kind  woman  in  Windsor,  she 
is  one.     You  must  send  her  your  page  ;  no  remedy. 

Fal.    Why,  I  will. 

Quick.  Nay,  but  do  so,  then  :  and,  look  you,  he  may  come 
and  go  between  you  both ;  and,  in  any  case,  have  a  nay 
w^ord,  that  you  may  know  one  another's  mind,  and  the  boy 
never  need  to  understand  any  thing ;  for  'tis  not  good  that 
children  should  know  any  wickedness ;  old  folks,  you  know, 
have  discretion,  as  they  say,  and  know  the  world. 

Fal.  Fare  thee  well :  commend  me  to  them  both :  there's 
my  purse  ;  I  am  yet  thy  debtor.  —  Boy,  go  along  with  this 
woman.  —  This  news  distracts  me  ! 

\_Exeunt  Quickly  and  Robin. 

Pist.  This  punk  is  one  of  Cupid's  carriers:  — 
Clap  on  more  sails ;  pursue ;  u'p  with  your  fights ; 
Give  fire ;   she  is  my  prize,  or  ocean  whelm  them  all ! 

[Exit  Pistol. 

Fal.  Say'st  thou  so,  old  Jack  ?  go  thy  ways ;  I'll  make 
more  of  thy  old  body  than  I  have  done.  Will  they  yet  look 
after  th?e  'i  Wilt  tliou,  after  the  expense  of  so  much  money, 
be  now  x  gainer  ?  Good  body,  I  thank  thee :  Let  them  say, 
'tis  grossly  done ;  so  it  be  fairly  done,  no  matter. 

Enter  Bardolpii. 
Bard.    Sir  John,  there's  one  master  Brook  below  would 


155.  MJ.RRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.         [Act  XL 

fain  speak  '\\itli  you,  tiiid  be  acquainted  with  you:  and  hath 
sent  your  worship  a  morning's  draught  of  sack. 

Fal.    Brook  is  his  name  ? 

Bard.    Ay,  sir. 

Fal.  Call  him  in.  \_Exit  Bardolph.]  Such  Brooks  are 
M'elcome  to  me,  that  o'erflow  such  liquor.  Ah  !  ha !  mistress 
Ford  and  mistress  Page,  have  I  encompassed  you  ?  go  to  ;  via  ! 

Re-enter  Bardolph  tvith  Ford  disguised. 

Ford.    Bless  you,  sir. 

Fal.    And  you,  sir :   Would  you  speak  with  me  ? 

Ford.  I  make  bold  to  press  with  so  little  preparation 
upon  you. 

Fal.  You're  Avelcome  :  What's  your  will  ?  Give  us  leave, 
drawer.  {^Exit  Bardolph. 

Ford.  Sir,  I  am  a  gentleman  that  have  spent  much ;  my 
name  is  Brook. 

Fal.  Good  master  Brook,  I  desire  more  acquaintance  of  you. 

Ford.  Good  Sir  John,  I  sue  for  yours  :  not  to  charge  you ; 
for  I  must  let  you  understand,  I  think  myself  in  better  plight 
for  a  lender  than  you  are :  the  which  hath  something  im- 
boldened  me  to  this  unseasoned  intrusion ;  for  they  say, 
if  money  go  before,  all  ways  do  lie  open. 

Fal.    Money  is  a  good  soldier,  sir,  and  will  on. 

Ford.  Troth,  and  I  have  a  bag  of  money  here  troubles 
me :  if  you  will  help  me  to  bear  it,  Sir  John,  take  all,  or 
half,  for  easing  me  of  the  carriage. 

Fal.  Sir,  I  know  not  how  I  may  deserve  to  be  your  porter. 

Ford.   I  will  tell  you,  sir,  if  you  will  give  me  the  hearing. 

Fal.  Speak,  good  master  Brook ;  I  shall  be  glad  to  be 
your  servant. 

Ford.  Sir,  I  hear  you  are  a  scholar, — I  will  be  brief  with 

you ; and  you  have  been  a  man  long   known  to  me, 

though  I  had  never  so  good  means,  as  desire,  to  make  my- 
self acquainted  with  you.  I  shall  discover  a  thing  to  you, 
wherein  I  must  very  much  lay  open  mine  own  imperfection : 
but,  good  Sir  John,  as  you  have  one  eye  upon  my  follies,  as 
you  hear  them  unfolded,  turn  another  into  the  register  of 
your  own ;  that  I  may  pass  with  a  reproof  the  easier,  sith 
Tou  yourself  know  how  easy  it  is  to  be  such  an  oflFender. 

Fal.    Very  well,  sir ;  proceed. 

Ford.  There  is  a  gentlewoman  in  this  town,  her  husband's 
name  is  Ford. 

Fal.    Well,  sir. 

Ford.  I  have  long  loved  her,  and,  I  protest  to  you,  be- 
stowed much  on  her:  followed  her  with  a  doting  observance; 


Act  Il.J         MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  15S 

engrossed  opportunities  to  meet  her ;  feed  every  slight  occa- 
sion, that  could  but  niggardly  give  me  sight  of  her ;  not 
only  bought  many  presents  to  give  her,  but  have  given 
largely  to  many,  to  know  what  she  would  have  given: 
briefly,  I  have  pursued  her,  as  love  hath  pursued  me ;  which 
hath  been  on  the  wing  of  all  occasions.  But,  whatsoever  1 
have  merited,  either  in  my  mind  or  in  my  means,  meed,  I 
am  sure,  I  have  received  none;  unless  experience  be  a  jewel: 
that  I  have  purchased  at  an  infinite  rate ;  and  that  hath 
taught  me  to  say  this : 

Love  like  a  shadow  flies,  when  substance  love  pursues  ; 
Pursuing  that  that  flies,  and  flying  ivhat  pursues, 

Fal.  Have  you  received  no  promise  of  satisfaction  at  her 
hands  ? 

Ford.    Never. 

Fal.    Have  you  importuned  her  to  such  a  purpose  ? 

Ford.    Never. 

Fal.    Of  what  quality  was  your  love,  then  ? 

Ford.  Like  a  fair  house,  built  upon  another  man's  ground, 
so  that  I  have  lost  my  edifice,  by  mistaking  the  place  where 
I  erected  it. 

Fal.    To  what  purpose  have  you  unfolded  this  to  me  ? 

Ford.  When  I  have  told  you  that,  I  have  told  you  all. 
Some  say,  that  though  she  appear  honest  to  me,  yet,  in  other 
places,  she  enlargeth  her  mirth  so  far,  that  there  is  shrewd 
construction  made  of  her.  Now,  Sir  John,  here  is  the  heart 
of  my  purpose  :  You  are  a  gentleman  of  excellent  breeding, 
admirable  discourse,  of  great  admittance,  authentic  in  your 
place  and  person,  generally  allowed  for  your  many  warlike, 
courtlike,  and  learned  preparations. 

Fal.    0,  sir ! 

Ford.  Believe  it,  for  you  know  it :  —  There  is  money ; 
spend  it,  spend  it,  spend  more ;  spend  all  I  have ;  only  give 
me  so  much  of  your  time  in  exchange  of  it,  as  to  lay  an 
amiable  siege  to  the  honesty  of  this  Ford's  wife :  use  your 
art  of  wooing,  win  her  consent  to  you ;  if  any  man  may, 
you  may  as  soon  as  any. 

Fal.  Would  it  a])))ly  well  to  the  vehemency  of  your  affec- 
tion, that  I  should  win  what  you  would  enjoy  ?  Methinks 
you  prescribe  to  yourself  very  preposterously. 

Ford.  0,  understand  my  drift !  she  dwells  so  securely  on 
the  excellency  of  her  honor,  that  the  folly  of  my  soul  dares 
.not  present  itself;  she  is  too  bright  to  be  looked  against. 
Now,  could  I  come  to  her  with  any  detection  in  my  hand, 
my  desires  had  instance  and  argument  to  commend  them- 


154  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.         [Act  II 

selves ;  I  could  drive  her  then  from  the  ward  of  her  purity, 
her  reputation,  her  marriage-vow,  and  a  thousand  other  her 
defences,  which  now  are  too  strongly  emhattled  against  me ; 
What  say  you  to't,  Sir  John  ? 

Fal.  Master  Brook,  I  will  first  make  hold  with  your 
money ;  next,  give  me  your  hand ;  and  last,  as  I  am  a  gen- 
ileman,  you  shall,  if  you  will,  enjoy  Ford's  wife. 

Ford.    0  good  sir ! 

Fal.    Master  Brook,  I  say  you  shall. 

Ford.    Want  no  money.  Sir  John  ;  you  shall  want  none. 

Fal.  Want  no  mistress  Ford,  Master  Brook  ;  you  shall 
want  none.  I  shall  he  with  her,  (I  may  tell  you,")  hy  her  own 
appointment ;  even  as  you  came  in  to  me,  her  assistant,  or 
go-between,  parted  from  me :  I  say,  I  shall  be  Avith  her 
between  ten  and  eleven  ;  for  at  that  time  the  jealous  rascally 
knave,  her  husband,  will  be  forth.  Come  you  to  me  at  night ; 
you  shall  know  how  I  speed. 

Ford.  I  am  blest  in  your  acquaintance.  Do  you  know 
Ford,  sir  ? 

Fal.    Hang  him,  poor  cuckoldly  knave  !  I  know  him  not : 

—  yet  I  wrong  him  to  call  him  poor;  they  say,  the  jealous 
wittolly  knave  hath  masses  of  money ;  for  the  which  his 
wife  seems  to  me  well-favored.  I  will  use  her  as  the  key  of 
the  cuckoldly  rogue's  coffer ;  and  there's  my  harvest-home. 

Ford.  I  would  you  knew  Ford,  sir ;  that  you  might  avoid 
him,  if  you  saw  him. 

Fal.  Hang  him,  mechanical  salt-butter  rogue !  I  will 
stare  him  out  of  his  Avits ;  I  will  awe  him  with  ray  cudgel ; 
it  shall  hang  like  a  meteor  o'er  the  cuckold's  horns :  master 
Brook,  thou  shalt  know,  I  will  predominate  o'er  the  peasant, 
and  thou  shalt  lie  Avith  his  wife.  —  Come  to  me  soon  at 
night:  —  Ford's  a  knave,  and  I  will  aggravate  his  stile; 
thou,  master  Brook,  shalt  know  him  for  a  knave  and  cuckold : 

—  come  to  me  soon  at  night.  \_Exit. 
Ford.    What  a  damned  Epicurean  rascal  is  this  !  —  My 

heart  is  ready  to  crack  with  impatience.  —  Who  says  this  is 
improvident  jealousy  ? — My  Avife  hath  sent  to  him,  the  hour 
is  fixed,  the  match  is  made.  Would  any  man  have  thought 
this  ? — See  the  hell  of  having  a  false  Avoman  !  my  bed  shall 
be  abused,  my  coffers  ransacked,  my  reputation  gnaAvn  at ; 
and  I  shall  not  only  receive  this  villanous  wrong,  but 
stand  under  the  adoption  of  abominable  terms,  and  by  him 

that  does  me  this  wrong.     Terms  !    names ! Amaimon 

sounds  well ;  Lucifer,  Avell ;  Barbason,  well ;  yet  they  are 
devils'  additions,  the  names  of  fiends :  but  cuckold !  Avittol 
cuckold  !  the  devil  himself  hath  not  such  a  name.     Page  is 


Act  n.]         MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  155 

an  ass,  a  secure  ass ;  he  will  trust  his  wife,  he  will  not  be 
jealous :  I  will  rather  trust  a  Fleming  with  my  butter,  parson 
Hugh  the  Welshman  with  my  cheese,  an  Irishman  Avith  my 
aqua-vitfe  bottle,  or  a  thief  to  walk  my  ambling  gelding, 
than  my  wife  with  herself;  then  she  plots,  then  she  rumi- 
nates, then  she  devises  :  and  what  they  think  in  their  hearts 
they  may  effect,  they  will  break  their  hearts  but  they  will 
effect.  Heaven  be  praised  for  my  jealousy ! — Eleven  o'clock 
the  hour  —  I  will  prevent  this,  detect  my  wife,  be  revenged 
on  Falstaff,  and  laugh  at  Page.  I  will  about  it ;  better  three 
hours  too  soon,  than  a  minute  too  late.  Fie,  fie,  fie !  cuckold ! 
cuckold  !  cuckold  !  [Uxit. 

SCENE  III.      Windsor  Park. 
Enter  Caius  and  Rugby. 

Caius.    Jack  Rugby. 

Ttug.    Sir. 

Oaius.    Vat  is  de  clock,  Jack  ? 

Hug.  'Tis  past  the  hour,  sir,  that  Sir  Hugh  promised  to 
meet. 

Caius.  By  gar,  he  has  save  his  soul,  dat  he  is  no  come : 
he  has  pray  his  Pible  veil,  dat  he  is  no  come :  by  gar,  Jack 
Rugby,  he  is  dead  already,  if  he  be  come. 

liug.  He  is  wise,  sir ;  he  knew  your  worship  would  kill 
him,  if  he  came. 

Caius.  By  gar,  de  herring  is  no  dead,  so  as  I  vill  kill 
him.  Take  your  rapier,  Jack  ;  I  vill  tell  you  how  I  vill  kill 
him. 

Mug.    Alas,  sir,  I  cannot  fence. 

Caius.    Villany,  take  your  rapier. 

Mug.    Forbear ;  here's  company. 

Unter  Host,  Shallow,  Slender,  and  Page. 

ffost.    'Bless  thee,  bully  doctor. 

Shal.    Save  you,  master  doctor  Caius. 

Page.    Now,  good  master  doctor ! 

Slen.    Give  you  good  morrow,  sir. 

Caius.    Vat  be  all  you,  one,  two,  tree,  four,  come  for  'i 

Host.  To  see  thee  fight,  to  see  thee  foin,  to  see  thee  tra- 
verse, to  see  thee  here,  to  see  thee  there ;  to  see  thee  pass 
thy  punto,  thy  stock,  thy  reverse,  thy  distance,  thy  mont- 
ant.  Is  he  dead,  ray  Ethiopian  ?  is  he  dead,  my  Francisco  ? 
ha,  bully  !  What  says  my  ^sculapius  ?  my  Galen  ?  my 
heart  of  elder  ?  ha  !  is  he  dead,  bully  Stale  ?  is  he  dead  ? 


156  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.         [Act  II. 

Caius.  By  gar,  he  is  de  coward  Jack  priest  of  the  vorld  ; 
he  is  not  show  his  face. 

Host.  Thou  art  a  Castilian,  king-urinal !  Hector  of 
Greece,  my  hoy ! 

Caius.  I  pray  you,  bear  vitness,  that  me  have  stay  six  or 
seven,  two,  tree  hours  for  him,  and  he  is  no  come. 

tShal.  He  is  the  wiser  man,  master  doctor :  he  is  a  curer 
of  souls,  and  you  a  curer  of  bodies ;  if  you  should  fight, 
you  go  against  the  hair  of  your  professions :  is  it  not  true, 
master  Page  ? 

Page.  Master  Shallow,  you  have  yourself  been  a  great 
fighter,  though  now  a  man  of  peace. 

Shal.  Bodykins,  master  Page,  though  I  now  be  old,  and 
of  the  peace,  if  I  see  a  sword  out,  my  finger  itches  to  make 
one :  though  we  are  justices,  and  doctors,  and  clmrchmen, 
master  Page,  we  have  some  salt  of  our  youth  in  us ;  we  are 
the  sons  of  women,  master  Page. 

Page.    'Tis  true,  master  Shallow. 

Shal.  It  will  be  found  so,  master  Page.  Master  doctor 
Caius,  I  am  come  to  fetch  you  home.  I  am  sworn  of  the 
peace  ;  you  have  showed  yourself  a  wise  physician,  and  Sir 
Hugh  hath  shown  himself  a  wise  and  patient  churchman : 
you  must  go  with  me,  master  doctor. 

Jlost.  Pardon,  guest  justice  :  —  A  word,  monsieur  Muck- 
water. 

Caius.    Muck-vater ;  vat  is  dat. 

Most.    Muck-water,  in  our  English  tongue,  is  valor,  bully. 

Cuius.  By  gar,  then  I  have  as  much  muck-vater  as  de 
Englishman:  —  Scurvy  jack-dog  priest;  by  gar,  me  vil  cut 
his  ears. 

Host.    He  will  clapper-claw  thee  tightly,  bully. 

Caius.    Clapper-de-claw !  vat  is  dat  ? 

Host.    That  is,  he  will  make  thee  amends. 

Caius.  By  gar,  me  do  look,  he  shall  clapper-de-claw  me , 
for,  by  gar,  me  vill  have  it. 

Host.    And  I  will  provoke  him  to't,  or  let  him  wag. 

Caius.    Me  tank  you  for  dat. 

Host.    And  moreover,  bully, But  first,  master  guest, 

and  master  Page,  and  eke  cavalero  Slender,  go  you  through 
the  town  to  Frogmore.  [^Aside  to  them. 

Page.    Sir  Hugh  is  there,  is  he  ? 

Host.  He  is  there  :  see  what  humour  he  is  in  ;  and  I  will 
bi'ing  the  doctor  about  by  the  fields :  will  it  do  well  ? 

Shal.    We  will  do  it. 

Page,  Shal.  and  Slen.     Adieu,  good  master  doctor. 

[Exeunt  Page,  Shallow,  and  Slender. 


Act  III.]        MERRY  AVIVES   OF   WINDSOR.  157 

Caius.  By  gar,  me  vill  kill  de  priest ;  for  lie  speak  for  a 
jack-an-ape  to  Anne  Page. 

Host.  Let  him  die :  but,  first,  sheath  thy  impatience ; 
throw  cold  water  on  thy  choler :  go  about  the  fields  with  me 
through  Frogmore  ;  I  will  bring  thee  where  Mrs.  Anne  Page 
is,  at  a  farmhouse  a  feasting ;  and  thou  shalt  woo  her ; 
Cry'd  game,  said  I  well  ? 

Caius.  By  gar,  me  tank  you  for  dat :  by  gar,  I  love  you ; 
and  I  shall  procure-a  you  de  good  guest,  de  earl,  de  knight, 
de  lords,  de  gentlemen,  my  patients. 

Host.  For  the  which,  I  will  be  thy  adversary  towards 
Anne  Page  ;  said  I  well  ? 

Caius.    By  gar,  'tis  good ;  veil  said. 

Host.    Let  us  wag  then. 

Caius.    Come  at  my  heels.  Jack  Rugby.  \Exeunt. 


ACT   III. 

SCENE  I.     A  Field  near  Frogmore. 
Enter  Sm  Hugh  Evans  and  Simple. 

Eva.  I  pray  you  now,  good  master  Slender's  serving-man, 
and  friend  Simple  by  your  name,  which  way  have  you  looked 
for  master  Caius,  that  calls  himself  Doctor  of  Physic  ? 

Sim.  ]\Iarry,  sir,  the  pittie-ward,  the  park  ward,  every 
way ;  old  Windsor  way,  and  every  way  but  the  town  way. 

Eva.  I  most  fehemently  desire  you,  you  will  also  look  that 
way. 

Sim.    I  will,  sir. 

Eva.  'Pless  my  soul !  how  full  of  cholers  I  am,  and 
trempling  of  mind!  —  I  shall  be  glad,  if  he  have  deceived 
me:  —  how  melancholies  I  am!  —  I  will  knog  his  urinals 
about  his  knave's  costard,  when  I  have  good  opportunities 
for  the  'ork  :  —  'pless  my  soul !  [^Sings. 

To  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals  ; 
There  will  we  make  our  peds  of  roses, 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies. 
To  shallow 

Mercy  on  me !  I  have  a  great  dispositions  to  cry. 

0 


168  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WIJNDSOR.        [Act  HI. 

Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals;  — 
Wlien  as  I  sat  in  Pabylon, — 
And  a  thousayid  vagram  posies. 
To  shallow 

Sim.    Yonder  he  is  coming  this  way,  Sir  Hugh. 
JEva.    He's  welconie: 

To  shallow  rive'^s,  to  whose  falls 

Heaven  prosper  the  right !  —  What  weapons  is  he  ? 

Si7n.  No  weapons,  sir :  There  comes  my  master,  master 
Shallow,  and  another  gentleman  from  Frogmore,  over  the 
Btile,  this  way. 

£va.  Pray  you  give  me  my  gown ;  or  else  keep  it  in  your 
arms. 

Unter  Page,  Shallow,  and  Slender. 

Shal.  How  now,  master  parson  ?  Good  morrow,  good 
Sir  Hugh.  Keep  a  gamester  from  the  dice,  and  a  good 
student  from  his  book,  and  it  is  wonderful. 

Slen.    Ah,  sweet  Anne  Page ! 

Page.    Save  yOu,  good  Sir  Hugh ! 

^va.    'Pless  you  from  his  mercy  sake,  all  of  you ! 

Shal.  What !  the  sword  and  the  word  !  do  you  study  them 
both,  master  parson  ? 

Page.  And  youthful  still,  in  your  doublet  and  hose,  this 
raw  rheumatic  day  ? 

^va.    There  is  reasons  and  causes  for  it. 

Page.  We  are  come  to  you  to  do  a  good  office,  master 
parson. 

JEva.    Fcry  well :  What  is  it  ? 

Page.  Yonder  is  a  most  reverend  gentleman,  who,  be 
like,  having  received  wrong  by  some  person,  is  at  most  odds 
with  his  own  gravity  and  patience,  that  ever  you  saw. 

Shal.  I  have  lived  fourscore  years  and  upward ;  I  never 
heard  a  man  of  his  place,  gravity,  and  learning,  so  wide  of 
his  own  respect. 

Uva.    What  is  he? 

Page.  I  think  you  know  him ;  master  doctor  Caius  the 
renowned  French  physician, 

Uva.  Got's  will,  and  his  passion  of  my  heart !  I  had  aa 
lief  you  would  tell  me  of  a  mess  of  porridge. 

Page.    Why?. 

Uva.  He  has  no  more  knowledge  in  Hibocrates  and  Galen, 
—  and  he  is  a  knave  besides;  a  cowardly  knave,  as  you 
would  desires  to  be  acquainted  withal. 


Act  III.]        MERllY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  159 

Page.  I  warrant  you,  he's  the  man  should  fight  with  him. 
Slen.    0,  sweet  Anne  Page! 

Shal.  It  appears  so,  hy  his  weapons :  —  Keep  them 
asunder ;  here  comes  doctor  Caius. 

Enter  Host,  Caius,  and  Rugby. 

Page.    Nay,  good  master  parson,  keep  in  your  weapon. 

Shal.    So  do  you,  good  master  doctor. 

Host.  Disarm  them,  and  let  them  question ;  let  them 
keep  their  limbs  whole,  and  hack  our  English. 

Caius.  I  pray  you,  let-a  me  speak  a  word  vit  your  ear : 
Verefore  vill  you  not  meet  a-me  ? 

EiKi.    Pray  you,  use  your  patience  :  In  good  time. 

Caius.  By  gar,  you  are  de  coward,  de  Jack  dog,  John  ape. 

Eva.  Pray  you,  let  us  not  be  laughing-stogs  to  other 
men's  humors ;  I  desire  you  in  friendship,  and  I  will  one 
way  or  other  make  you  amends  :  — I  will  knog  your  urinals 
about  your  knave's  cogscomb,  for  missing  your  meetings  and 
appointments. 

Caius.  Diable  !  —  Jack  Rugby, —  mine  Host  de  Jarterre, 
—  have  I  not  stay  for  him  to  kill  him?  have  I  not,  at  de 
place  I  did  appoint  ? 

Eva.  As  I  am  a  Christians  soul,  now,  look  you,  this  is 
the  place  appointed ;  I'll  be  judgment  by  mine  host  of  the 
Garter. 

Host.  Peace,  I  say,  Guallia  and  Gaul,  French  and  Welsh, 
soul-curer  and  body-curer. 

Caius.    Ay,  dat  is  very  good !  excellent ! 

Host.  Peace,  I  say  ;  hear  mine  host  of  the  Garter.  Am 
I  politic  ?  am  I  subtle  ?  am  I  a  Machiavel  ?  Shall  I  lose  my 
doctor  ?  no ;  he  gives  me  the  potions,  and  the  motions. 
Shall  I  lose  my  parson,  my  priest,  my  Sir  Hugh  ?  no ;  he 
gives  me  the  proverbs  and  the  no-verbs.  —  Give  me  thy 
hand,  terrestrial ;  so :  —  Give  me  thy  hand,  celestial ;  so. 

Boys  of  art,  I  have    deceived   you   both ;    I  have 

directed  you  to  wrong  places:  your  hearts  are  mighty, your 
skins  are  whole,  and  let  burnt  sack  be  the  issue.  —  Come, 
lay  their  swords  to  pawn  :  —  Follow  me,  lad  of  peace  ;  fol- 
low, follow,  follow. 

Shal.   Trust  me,  a  mad  host : — Follow,  gentlemen,  follow. 

Slen.    0,  sweet  Anne  Page ! 

[^Exnunt  Shal.  Slen.  Page,  and  Host 

Caius.  Ha  !  do  I  perceive  dat  ?  have  you  makc-a  de  sot 
of  us  ?  ha,  ha  ! 

Eva.    This  is  well:  he  has  made  us  his  vlouting-stog. — 
[  desire  you,  that  we  may  be  friends ;  and  let  us  knog  our 


160  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.        [Act  III 

prains  together,  to  be  revenge  on  this  same  scall,  scurvy, 
cogging  companion,  the  host  of  the  Garter. 

Oaius.  By  gar,  vit  all  my  heart ;  he  promise  to  bring  me 
vere  is  Anne  Page :  by  gar,  he  deceive  me  too. 

Uva.    Well,  I  will  smite  his  noddles  :  — Pray  you,  follow. 

[Uxeunt. 


SCENE  II.     The  Street  in   Windsor. 
Enter  Mistress  Page  and  Robin. 

3Irs.  Page.  Nay,  keep  your  way,  little  gallant ;  you 
were  wont  to  be  a  follower,  but  now  you  are  a  leader ;  Whe- 
ther had  you  rather  lead  mine  eyes,  or  eye  your  master's 
heels  ? 

Roh.  I  had  rather,  forsooth,  go  before  you  like  a  man, 
than  follow  him  like  a  dwarf. 

3Irs.  Page.  0,  you  are  a  flattering  boy ;  now,  I  see 
you'll  be  a  courtier. 

Enter  Ford. 

Ford.    Well  met,  mistress  Page :  Whither  go  you  ? 

Mrs.  Page.    Truly,  sir,  to  see  your  wife :  Is  she  at  home  V 

Ford.  Ay ;  and  as  idle  as  she  may  hang  together,  for 
want  of  company  :  I  think,  if  your  husbands  were  dead,  you 
two  would  marry. 

Mrs.  Page.    Be  sure  of  that,  —  two  other  husbands. 

Ford.    Where  had  you  this  pretty  weather-cock  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  I  cannot  tell  what  the  dickens  his  name  is 
my  husband  had  him  of:  W^hat  do  you  call  your  knight's 
name,  sirrah  ? 

Roh.    Sir  John  Falstaff. 

Ford.    Sir  John  Falstaff! 

Mrs.  Page.  He,  he  ;  I  can  never  hit  on's  name.  There's 
such  a  league  between  my  good  man  and  he  !  — Is  your  wife 
at  home,  indeed? 

Ford.    Indeed  she  is. 

Mrs.  Page.  By  your  leave,  sir ;  —  I  am  sick,  till  I  seo 
her.  \_Exeunt  Mrs.  Page  and  Robin. 

Ford.  Has  Page  any  brains  ?  hath  he  any  eyes  ?  hath  he 
any  thinking  ?  Sure,  they  sleep  ;  he  hath  no  use  of  them. 
Why,  this  boy  will  carry  a  letter  twenty  miles,  as  easy  as 
a  cannon  will  vshoot  point  blant  twelve  score.  He  pieces- 
out  his  wife's  inclination ;  he  gives  her  folly  motion  and 
advantage :  and  now  she's  going  to  my  wife,  and  Falstaflf 's 
boy  with  her.     A  man  may  hear  this  shower  sing  in  the 


Act  III.]        MEEPiY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  161 

wind  !  —  and  Falstaif 's  boy  -w-itli  her  !  —  Good  plots  !  —  they 
are  laid ;  and  our  revoltecl  wives  share  damnation  together. 
Well ;  I  will  take  him  ;  then  torture  my  wife,  pluck  the 
borrowed  veil  of  modesty  from  the  so-seeming  mistress  Page, 
divulge  Pao;e  himself  for  a  secure  and  wilful  Actceon :  and 
to  these  violent  proceedings  all  my  neighbors  shall  cry  aim. 
[Clock  strikes.^  The  clock  gives  me  my  cue,  and  my  assu- 
rance bids  me  search;  there  I  shall  find  Falstaif:  I  shall 
be  rather  praised  for  this,  than  mocked  ;  for  it  is  as  positive 
as  the  earth  is  firm,  that  Falstaif  is  there :  I  will  go. 

Enter  Page,  Shallow,  Slender,  Host,  Sir  Hugh  Evans, 
Caius,  and  Rugby. 

Shal.  Page,  ^c.     Well  met,  master  Ford. 

Ford.  Trust  me,  a  good  knot :  I  have  good  cheer  at  home ; 
and,  I  pray  you  all,  go  with  me. 

Shal.  I  must  excuse  myself,  master  Ford. 

Slen.  And  so  must  I,  sir :  we  have  appointed  to  dine 
with  mistress  xlnne,  and  I  would  not  break  with  her  for 
more  money  than  I'll  speak  off. 

Shal.  We  have  lingered  about  a  match  between  Anne  Page 
and  my  cousin  Slender,  and  this  day  we  shall  have  our  answer. 

Slen.    I  hope  I  have  your  good  Avill,  father  Page. 

Page.  You  have,  master  Slender ;  I  stand  wholly  for 
you:  —  but  my  wife,  master  doctor,  is  for  you  altogether. 

Cains.  Ay,  by  gar  ;  and  de  maid  is  love-a  me ;  my  nursh-a 
Quickly  tell  me  so  mush. 

Host.  What  say  you  to  young  master  Fenton  ?  he  capers, 
he  dances,  he  has  eyes  of  youth,  he  writes  verses,  he  speaks 
holyday,  he  smells  April  and  May :  he  will  carry' t,  he  will 
carry't ;   'tis  in  his  buttons ;  he  will  carry't. 

Page.  Not  by  my  consent,  I  promise  you.  The  gentle- 
man is  of  no  having :  he  kept  company  with  the  wild  Prince 
and  Poins ;  he  is  of  too  high  a  region,  he  knows  too  much 
No,  he  shall  not  knit  a  knot  in  his  fortunes  with  the  finger- 
of  my  substance :  if  he  take  her,  let  him  take  her  simply ; 
the  wealth  I  have  waits  on  my  consent,  and  my  consent  goes 
not  that  way. 

Ford.  I  beseech  you,  heartily,  some  of  you  go  home  with 
me  to  dinner :  besides  your  cheer,  you  shall  have  sport ;  I 

will  show  you  a  monster. Master  doctor,  you  shall  go ; 

—  so  shall  you,  master  Page ;  —  and  you,   Sir  Hugh. 

Shal.  Well,  fare  you  well :  —  we  shall  have  the  freer 
wooing  at  master  Page's.     [Exeunt  Shallow  and  Slender. 

Gains.    Go  home,  John  Rugby ;   I  come  anon. 

[Exit  Rugby. 

Vol.  I.  —  11  0* 


162  MEKRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.        [Act  III 

Host.  Farewell,  my  hearts :  I  will  to  my  honest  knight 
Falstaff,  and  drink  canary  with  him.  [Exit  Host. 

Ford.  \_Aside.'\  I  think,  I  shall  drink  in  pipe-wine  first 
with  him ;  I'll  make  him  dance.     Will  you  go,  gentles  ? 

All.    Have  with  you,  to  see  this  monster.        [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.     A  Room  in  Ford's  Rome. 
Enter  Mrs.  Ford  and  Mrs.  Page. 

Mrs.  Ford.    What,  John  !    what,  Robert ! 

Mrs.  Page.    Quickly!  quickly:  Is  the  buck-basket  — 

Mrs.  Ford.    I  warrant :  —  What,  Robin,  I  say  ! 

Enter  Servants  with  a  basket. 

Mrs.  Page.    Come,  come,  come. 

Mrs.  Ford.    Here,  set  it  down. 

Mrs.  Page.  Give  your  men  the  charge  ;  we  must  be  brief. 

3Irs.  Ford.  Marry,  as  I  told  you  before,  John  and  Robert, 
be  ready  here  hard  by  in  the  brewhouse ;  and  when  I  sud- 
denly call  you,  come  forth,  and  (without  any  pause,  or  stag- 
gering) take  this  basket  on  your  shoulders :  that  done,  trudge 
with  it  in  all  lia-ste,  and  carry  it  among  the  whitsters  in  Datchet 
mead,  and  there  empty  it  in  the  muddy  ditch,  close  by  the 
Thames's  side. 

Mrs.  Page.    You  will  do  it  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  have  told  them  over  and  over ;  they  lack  no 
direction :   Be  gone,  and  come  when  you  are  called. 

[Exeunt  Servants. 

Mrs.  Page.    Here  comes  little  Robin. 

Enter  Robin. 

Mrs.  Ford.  How  now,  my  eyas-musket  ?  what  news  with 
you  ? 

Roh.  My  master  Sir  John  has  come  in  at  your  back  door, 
mistress  Ford,  and  requests  your  company. 

Mrs.  Page.  You  little  Jack-a-lent,  have  you  been  true 
to  us  ? 

Roh.  Ay,  I'll  be  sworn :  My  master  knows  not  of  your 
being  here ;  and  hath  threatened  to  put  me  into  everlasting 
liberty,  if  I  tell  you  of  it ;  for,  he  swears,  he'li  turn  me  away. 

3Irs.  Page.  Thou  art  a  good  boy ;  this  secrecy  of  thine 
shall  be  a  tailor  to  thee,  and  shall  make  thee  a  new  doublet 
and  hose.  —  I'll  go  hide  me. 

Mrs.  Ford.    Do  so :  —  Go  tell  thy  master,  I  am  alone 
Mistress  Page,  remember  you  your  cue.         [Exit  Robin 


Act  III.]        MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  163 

Mrs.  Page.  I  warrant  thee ;  if  I  do  not  act  it,  hiss  me. 

[Exit  Mrs.  Page 

Mrs.  Ford.  Go  to  then :  we'll  use  this  unwholesome 
humidity,  this  gross  watery  pumpion ;  —  we'll  teach  him  to 
know  turtles  from  jays. 

Enter  Falstaff. 

Fed.  Have  I  caugM  thee,  my  heavenly  jewel  f  Why, 
now  let  me  die,  for  I  have  lived  long  enough ;  this  is  the 
period  of  my  ambition :    0  this  blessed  hour ! 

Mrs.  Ford.    0  sweet  Sir  John  ! 

Fal.  Mistress  Ford,  I  cannot  cog,  I  cannot  prate,  mistress 
Ford.  Now  shall  I  sin  in  my  wish :  I  would  thy  husband 
were  dead :  I'll  speak  it  before  the  best  lord,  I  would  make 
thee  my  lady. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  your  lady.  Sir  John !  alas,  I  should  be  a 
pitiful  lady. 

Fal.   Let  the  court  of  France  show  me  such  another ;  I 
see  how  thine  eye  would  emulate  the  diamond :  Thou  hast 
the  right  arched  bent  of  the  brow,  that  becomes  the  ship 
tire,  the  tire-valiant,  or  any  tire  of  Venetian  admittance. 

Mrs.  Ford.  A  plain  kerchief.  Sir  John  :  my  brows  become 
nothing  else  :  nor  that  well  neither. 

Fal.  By  the  Lord,  thou  art  a  traitor  to  say  so :  thou 
would'st  make  an  absolute  courtier ;  and  the  firm  fixture  of 
thy  foot  would  give  an  excellent  motion  to  thy  gait,  in  a 
semi-circled  farthingale.  I  see  what  thou  wert,  if  fortune 
thy  foe  were  not :  nature  is  thy  friend :  Come,  thou  canst 
not  hide  it. 

Mrs.  Ford.    Believe  me,  there's  no  such  thing  in  me. 

Fal.  What  made  me  love  thee  ?  let  that  persuade  thee, 
there's  something  extraordinary  in  thee.  Come,  I  cannot 
cog,  and  say  thou  art  this  and  that,  like  a  many  of  these 
lisping  hawthorn  buds,  that  come  like  women  in  men's  appa- 
rel, and  smell  like  Bucklersbury  in  simple-time  ;  I  cannot : 
but  I  love  thee ;  none  but  thee ;  and  thou  deservest  it. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Do  not  betray  me,  sir ;  I  fear  you  love  mis- 
tress Page. 

Fal.  Thou  might'st  as  well  say,  I  love  to  walk  by  the 
Counter-gate ;  which  is  as  hateful  to  me  as  the  reek  of  a 
lime-kiln. 

Ms.  Ford.  Well,  heaven  knows  how  I  love  you;  and 
you  shall  one  day  find  it. 

Fal.    Keep  in  that  mind ;  I'll  deserve  it. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  I  must  tell  you,  so  you  do ;  or  else  1 
could  not  be  in  that  mind. 


164  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.        [Act  III 

JRoh.  [  Within.']  Mistress  Ford,  mistress  Ford !  here's 
mistress  Page  at  the  door,  sweating  and  blowing,  and  look- 
ing wildly,  and  would  needs  speak  with  you  presently. 

Fal.  She  shall  not  see  me ;  I  will  ensconce  me  behind 
the  arras. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Pray  you,  do  so ;  she's  a  very  tattling  wo- 
man.—  [Falstaff  hides  himself. 

Filter  Mistress  Page  and  Robin. 

What's  the  matter?  how  now? 

Mrs.  Page.  0  mistress  Ford,  what  have  you  done  ?  You're 
ashamed,  you  are  overthrown,  you  are  undone  forever. 

3Irs.  Ford.    What's  the  matter,  good  mistress  Page  ? 

3Irs.  Page.  0  well-a-day,  mistress  Ford  !  having  an  hon 
est  man  to  your  husband,  to  give  him  such  cause  of  suspi- 
cion ! 

3Irs.  Ford.    What  cause  of  suspicion  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  What  cause  of  suspicion!  —  Out  upon  you! 
how  am  I  mistook  in  you ! 

3Irs.  Ford.    Why,  alas !  what's  the  matter  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Your  husband's  coming  hither,  woman,  with 
all  the  officers  in  Windsor,  to  search  for  a  gentleman,  that, 
he  says,  is  here  now  in  the  house,  by  your  consent,  to  take 
an  ill  advantage  of  his  absence :  You  are  undone. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Speak  louder. — [J.sic^e.] — 'Tis  not  so,  I  hope. 

3Irs.  Page.  Pray  heaven  it  be  not  so,  that  you  have  such 
a  man  here ;  but  'tis  most  certain  your  husband's  coming 
with  half  Windsor  at  his  heels,  to  search  for  such  a  one.  I 
come  before  to  tell  you :  If  you  know  yourself  clear,  why, 
I  am  glad  of  it :  but  if  you  have  a  friend  here,  convey,  con- 
vey him  out.  Be  not  amazed :  call  all  your  senses  to  you ; 
defend  your  reputation,  or  bid  farewell  to  your  good  life 
forever. 

3Irs.  Ford.  What  shall  I  do  ? — There  is  a  gentleman,  my 
dear  friend ;  and  I  fear  not  mine  own  shame  so  much  as  his 
peril :  I  had  rather  than  a  thousand  pound,  he  were  out  of 
the  house. 

3frs.  Page.  For  shame  ;  never  stand,  i/ou  had  rather,  and 
gou  had  rather;  your  husband's  here  at  hand;  bethink  you 
of  some  conveyance :  in  the  house  you  cannot  hide  him. — 
0,  how  have  you  deceived  me !  — Look,  here  is  a  basket ;  if 
he  be  of  any  reasonable  stature,  he  may  creep  in  here ;  and 
throw  foul  linen  upon  him,  as  if  it  were  going  to  bucking : 
Or,  it  is  whiting  time,  send  him  by  your  two  men  to  Datchet 
mead. 

Mrs.  Ford.  He's  too  big  to  go  in  there :  What  Bhall  I  do? 


Act  III.]       MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  165 

Re-enter  Falstaff. 

Fal.  Let  me  see't ;  let  me  see't !  0  let  me  see't !  I'll  in, 
['11  in  ;  —  follow  your  friend's  counsel :  —  I'll  in. 

Mrs.  Page.  What !  Sir  John  FalstaflF !  Are  these  your 
letters,  knight  ? 

Fal.    I  love  thee,  and  none  but  thee ;  help  me  away :  let. 

me  creep  in  here ;  I'll  never 

\IIe  goes  into  the  basket ;  they  cover  him  with  foul  linen.~\ 

Mrs.  Page.  Help  to  cover  your  master,  boy  :  Call  your 
men,  mistress  Ford :  —  You  dissembling  knight ! 

3Irs.  Ford.  What,  John,  Robert,  John  !  [^Exit  Robin  ; 
Re-enter  Servants.]  Go,  take  up  these  clothes  here,  quickly ; 
where's  the  cowl-staff?  look,  how  you  drumble :  carry  them 
to  the  laundress  in  Datchet  mead ;  quickly,  come. 

Enter  Ford,  Page,  Caius,  and  Sir  Hugh  Evans. 

Ford.  Pray  you,  come  near :  if  I  suspect  without  cause, 
why  then  make  sport  at  me,  then  let  me  be  your  jest ;  I 
deserve  it.  —  How  now  ?  whither  bear  you  this  ? 

Serv.    To  the  laundress,  forsooth. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why,  what  have  you  to  do  whither  they  bear 
it  ?     You  were  best  meddle  with  buck-washing. 

Ford.  Buck  ?  I  would  I  could  wash  myself  of  the  buck  ! 
Buck  !  buck  !  buck  ?  Ay,  buck  !  I  warrant  you,  buck  ;  and 
of  the  season  too,  it  shall  appear.  [^Exeunt  Servants  toith 
the  hasket.~\  Gentlemen,  I  have  dreamed  to-night ;  I'll  tell 
you  my  dream.  Here,  here  be  my  keys :  ascend  my  cham- 
bers, search,  seek,  find  out :  I'll  warrant  we'll  unkennel  the 
fox  :  —  Let  me  stop  this  way  first :  —  So,  now  uncape. 

Page.  Good  master  Ford,  be  contented ;  you  wrong  your- 
self too  much. 

Ford.  True,  master  Page.  —  Up,  gentlemen ;  you  shall 
see  sport  anon  :  follow  me,  gentlemen.  [Exit- 

Eva.    This  is  fery  fantastical  humors,  and  jealousies. 

Caius.  By  gar,  'tis  no  de  fashion  of  France :  it  is  not 
jealous  in  France. 

Page.  Nay,  follow  him,  gentlemen ;  see  the  issue  of  his 
search.  [Exeunt  Evans,  Page,  and  Caius. 

Mrs.  Page.    Is  there  not  a  double  excellency  in  this  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  know  not  what  pleases  me  better,  that  my 
husband  is  deceived,  or  Sir  John. 

Mrs.  Page.  What  a  taking  was  he  in,  when  your  husband 
asked  who  was  in  the  basket ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  am  half  afraid  he  will  have  need  of  wash- 
in  r  ;  so  throwing  him  into  the  water  will  do  him  a  benefit. 


166  MHRRY  W I VKS  (3F  WINDSOR.        [Act  III 

Mrs.  Page.  Hang  liim,  dishonest  rascal !  I  would  all  of 
the  same  strain  were  in  the  same  distress. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  think  my  husband  hath  some  special  sus- 
picion of  Falstaff's  being  here  ;  for  I  never  saw  him  so  gross 
in  his  jealousy  till  now. 

Mrs.  Page.  I  will  lay  a  plot  to  try  that :  And  we  will 
yet  have  more  tricks  with  Falstaff :  his  dissolute  disease  will 
scarce  obey  this  medicine. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Shall  we  send  that  foolish  carrion,  mistress 
Quickly,  to  him,  and  excuse  his  throwing  into  the  water ; 
and  give  him  another  hope,  to  betray  him  to  another  punish- 
ment ? 

Mrs.  Page.  We'll  do  it ;  let  him  be  sent  for  to-morrow 
eight  o'clock  to  have  amends. 

Re-enter  Fokd,  Page,  Caius,  arid  Sir  Hugh  Evans. 

Ford.  I  cannot  find  him:  may  be  the  knave  bragged  of 
that  he  could  not  compass. 

Mrs.  Page.    Heard  you  that  ? 

Mrs.  Ford..  Ay,  ay,  peace :  —  You  use  me  well,  mastei 
Ford,  do  you  ? 

Ford.    Ay,  I  do  so. 

Mrs.  Ford.    Heaven  make  you  better  than  your  thoughts. 

Ford.    Amen. 

Mrs.  Page.    You  do  yourself  mighty  wrong,  master  Ford. 

Ford.    Ay,  ay ;  I  must  bear  it. 

Eva.  If  there  be  any  pody  in  the  house,  and  in  the  cham- 
bers, and  in  the  coffers,  and  in  the  presses,  heaven  forgive 
my  sins  at  the  day  of  judgment. 

Caius.    By  gar,  noi  I  too  ;  dere  is  no  bodies. 

Page.  Fie,  fie,  master  Ford  I  are  you  not  ashamed  ? 
What  spirit,  what  devil  suggests  this  imagination  ?  I  would 
not  have  your  distemper  in  this  kind  for  the  wealth  of  Wind- 
sor Castle. 

Ford.    'Tis  my  fault,  master  Page  :  I  suffer  for  it. 

Eva.  You  suffer  for  a  pad  conscience :  your  wife  is  as 
honest  a  'omans  as  I  will  desires  among  five  thousand,  and 
five  hundred  too. 

Caius.    By  gar,  I  see  'tis  an  honest  woman. 

Ford.  Well ;  —  I  promised  you  a  dinner  :  —  Come,  come, 
walk  in  the  park  :  I  pray  you,  pardon  me  ;  I  will  hereafter 
make  known  to  you,  why  I  have  done  this.  —  Come,  wife  ; 
come,  mistress  Page  ;  I  pray  you  pardon  me  ;  pray  heartily, 
pardon  me. 

Page.  Let's  go  in,  gentlemen  ;  but,  trust  me,  we'll  mock 
him      I  do  invite  you  to-morrow  morning  to  my  house  to 


ACT  III.]       MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  167 

breakfast ;  after,  we'll  a  birding  together ;  I  have  a  fine 
hawk  for  the  bush  :   Shall  it  be  so  ? 

Ford.    Any  thing. 

Eva.    If  there  is  one,  I  shall  malce  two  in  the  company. 

Caius.    If  there  be  one  or  two,  I  shall  make-a  de  turd. 

Eva.    In  your  teeth :  for  shame. 

Ford.    Pray  you  go,  master  Page. 

Eva.  I  pray  you  now  remembrance  to-morrow,  on  the 
lousy  knave,  mine  host. 

Caius.    Dat  is  good ;  by  gar,  vit  all  my  heart. 

Eva.    A  lousy  knave  ;  to  have  his  gibes,  and  his  mockeries. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.     A  Boom  in  Page's  Rouse. 
Enter  Fenton  and  Mistress  Anne  Page. 

Fent.    I  see,  I  cannot  get  thy  father's  love ; 
Therefore,  no  more  turn  me  to  him,  sweet  Nan. 

Anne.    Alas  !  how  then  ? 

Fent.  Why,  thou  must  be  thyself. 

He  doth  object,  I  am  too  great  of  birth ; 
And  that,  my  state  being  galled  with  my  expense, 
I  seek  to  heal  it  only  by  his  wealth : 

Besides  these,  other  bars  he  lays  before  me, 

My  riots  past,  my  wild  societies ; 
And  tells  me,  'tis  a  thing  impossible 
I  should  love  thee,  but  as  a  property. 

Anne.    May  be,  he  tells  you  true. 

Fetit.    No,  heaven  so  speed  me  in  my  time  to  come ! 
Albeit  I  will  confess,  thy  father's  wealth 
Was  the  first  motive  that  I  wooed  thee,  Anne ; 
Yet,  wooing  thee,  I  found  thee  of  more  value 
Than  stamps  in  gold,  or  sums  in  sealed  bags ; 
And  'tis  the  very  riches  of  thyself 
That  now  I  aim  at. 

Anne.  Gentle  master  Fenton, 

Yet  seek  my  father's  love :  still  seek  it,  sir : 
If  opportunity  and  humblest  suit 
Cannot  attain  it,  why  then  —  Hark  you  hither. 

\_They  converse  apart. 

Enter  Shallow,  Slender,  and  Mrs.  Quickly. 

Shal.  Break  their  talk,  mistress  Quickly;  my  kinsman 
shall  speak  for  himself. 

iSlen.  I'll  make  a  shaft  or  a  bolt  on't ;  slid,  'tis  but  ven- 
turing. 


168  MEliRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.        [Act  III. 

SJial.    Be  not  dismayed. 

Slen.  No,  she  shall  not  dismay  me :  I  care  not  for  that, 
—  but  that  I  am  afeard. 

QiiieJc.  Hark  ye ;  master  Slender  would  speak  a  word 
with  you. 

Anne.    I  come  to  him.  —  This  is  my  father's  choice. 
0,  what  a  world  of  vile  ill-favored  faults 
Looks  handsome  in  three  hundred  pounds  a  year  ! 

[^Aside. 

Quick.  And  how  does  good  master  Fenton  ?  Pray  you, 
a  Avord  with  you. 

iShal.  She's  coming ;  to  her,  coz.  0  boy,  thou  hadst  a 
father ! 

Slen.  I  had  a  father,  mistress  Anne ;  —  my  uncle  can 
tell  you  good  jests  of  him  :  —  Pray  you,  uncle,  tell  mistress 
Anne  the  jest,  how  my  father  stole  two  geese  out  of  a  pen, 
good  uncle. 

Shed.    Mistress  Anne,  my  cousin  loves  you. 

Slen.  Ay,  that  I  do ;  as  well  as  I  love  any  woman  in 
Gloucestershire. 

Shal.    He  will  maintain  you  like  a  gentlewoman. 

Slen.  Ay,  that  I  will,  come  cut  and  long  tail,  under  the 
degree  of  a  'squire. 

Shal.  He  will  make  you  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
jointure. 

Anne.    Good  master  Shallow,  let  him  woo  for  himself. 

Shal.  Marry,  I  thank  you  for  it ;  I  thank  you  for  that 
good  comfort.     She  calls  you,  coz :  I'll  leave  you. 

Amie.    Now,  master  Stender. 

Slen.    Now,  good  mistress  Anne. 

Anne.    What  is  your  will  ? 

Sle7i.  My  will  ?  od's  heartlings,  that's  a  pretty  Jest, 
indeed !  I  ne'er  made  my  will  yet,  I  thank  heaven ;  I  am 
not  such  a  sickly  creature,  I  give  heaven  praise. 

Anne.    I  mean,  master  Slender,  what  would  you  with  me  ? 

Slen.  Truly,  for  mine  own  part,  I  would  little  or  nothing 
with  you :  Your  father  and  my  uncle  have  made  motions ; 
if  it  be  my  luck,  so  :  if  not,  happy  man  be  his  dole  !  They 
can  tell  you  how  things  go,  better  than  I  can  :  You  may  ask 
your  father ;  here  he  comes. 

Enter  Page  and  Mistress  Page. 

Page.    Now,    master    Slender :  —  Love    him,    daughter 
Anne. — 
Why,  how  now !  what  does  master  Fenton  here  ? 


Act  III.]        MERRY  WIVES  OF  WI^sDSOR  169 

You  wrong  me,  sir,  thus  still  to  haunt  roy  house  : 
I  told  you,  sir,  my  daughter  is  disposed  of. 

Fent.    Nay,  master  Page,  be  not  impatient. 

Mrs.  Page.    Good  master  Fenton,  come  not  to  my  child. 

Page.    She  is  no  match  for  you. 

Fent.    Sir,  will  you  hear  me  ? 

Page.  No,  good  master  Fenton 

Come,  master  ShalloAv ;  come,  son  Slender ;  in :  — 
Knowing  my  mind,  you  wrong  me,  master  Fenton. 

\_Exeunt  Page,  Shallow,  and  Slender. 

Quick.    Speak  to  mistress  Page. 

Fent.    Good  mistress  Page,  for  that  I  love  your  daughter 
In  such  a  righteous  fashion  as  I  do. 
Perforce,  against  all  checks,  rebukes,  and  manners, 
I  must  advance  the  colors  of  my  love. 
And  not  retire :  Let  me  have  your  good  will. 

Anne.    Good  mother,  do  not  marry  me  to  yond'  fool. 

Mrs.    Page.    I  mean  it  not ;  I  seek  you  a  better  husband. 

Quick.    That's  my  master,  master  doctor. 

Anne.    Alas,  I  had  rather  be  set  quick  i'  the  earth. 
And  bowl'd  to  death  with  turnips. 

Mrs.  Page.    Come,  trouble    not  youi-self :    Good  master 
Fenton, 
I  will  not  be  your  friend,  nor  enemy. 
My  daughter  will  I  question  how  she  loves  you, 
And  as  I  find  her,  so  am  I  affected ; 
Till  then,  farewell,  sir :  —  she  must  needs  go  in ; 
Her  father  will  be  angry. 

[Exeunt  Mrs.  Page  and  Anne. 

Fent.    Farewell,  gentle  mistress ;  farewell.  Nan. 

Quick.  This  is  my  doing,  now :  —  Nay,  said  I,  will  you 
cast  away  your  child  on  a  fool,  and  a  physician  ?  Look  on 
master  Fenton  :  —  this  is  my  doing. 

Fent.  I  thank  thee ;  and  I  pray  thee  once  to-night  give 
my  sweet  Nan  this  ring :  There's  for  thy  pains.  \_Exit 

Quick.  Now  heaven  send  thee  good  fortune  !  A  kind  heart 
he  hath  ^-a  woman  would  run  through  fire  and  water  for  such 
a  kind  heart.  But  yet,  I  would  my  master  had  mistress 
Anne ;  or  I  would  master  Slender  had  her ;  or,  in  sooth,  I 
would  master  Fenton  had  her  :  I  will  do  what  I  can  for  them 
all  three  ;  for  so  I  have  promised,  and  I'll  be  as  good  as  my 
word ',  butr^peciously  for  master  Fenton.  Well,  I  must  of 
another  errand  to  Sir  John  Falstaff  from  my  two  mistresses  : 
What  a  beast  am  I  to  slack  it  ?  [Exit. 

p 


170  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.        [Act  III. 

SCENE  V.     A  ]loo7n  in  the  Garter  Inn. 
Enter  Falstaff  and  Bardolph. 

Fal.    Bardolpb,  I  say  — 

Bard     Here,  sir. 

Fal,  Go  fetch  me  a  quart  of  sack ;  put  a  toast  in't. 
[Exit  Bard.]  Have  I  lived  to  be  carried  in  a  basket,  like 
a  barrow  of  butcher's  offal;  and  to  be  thrown  into  the 
Thames  ?  Well ;  if  I  be  served  such  another  trick,  I'll  have 
my  brains  ta'eu  out,  and  buttered,  and  give  them  to  a  dog 
for  a  new  year's  gift.  The  rogues  slighted  me  into  the  river 
with  as  little  remorse,  as  they  would  have  drowned  a  bitch's 
blind  puppies,  fifteen  i'  the  litter :  and  you  may  know  by 
my  size,  that  I  have  a  kind  of  alacrity  in  sinking ;  if  the 
bottom  were  as  deep  as  hell,  I  should  down.  I  had  been 
drowned,  but  that  the  shore  was  shelvy  and  shallow ;  a  death 
that  I  abhor ;  for  the  water  swells  a  man  ;  and  what  a  thing 
should  I  have  been,  when  I  had  been  swelled !  I  should  have 
been  a  mountain  of  mummy. 

Re-enter  Bardolph,  with  the  wine. 

Bard.    Here's  mistress  Quickly,  sir,  to  speak  with  yon. 

Fal.  Come,  let  me  pour  in  some  sack  to  the  Thauics 
water ;  for  my  belly's  as  cold,  as  if  I  had  swallowed  snow- 
balls for  pills  to  cool  the  reins.     Call  her  in. 

Bard.    Come  in,  woman. 

Enter  Mrs.  Quickly. 

Quick.  By  your  leave ;  I  cry  you  mercy :  Give  your 
worship  good-morrow. 

Fal.  Take  away  these  chalices :  Go  brew  me  a  pottle  of 
sack  finely. 

Bar.    With  eggs,  sir? 

Fal.  Simple  of  itself ;  I'll  no  pullet-sperm  in  my  brewage. 
[Exit  Bardolph.]     How  now  ? 

Quick.  Marry,  sir,  I  come  to  your  worship  from  mistress 
Ford. 

Fal.  Mistress  Ford !  I  have  had  ford  enough :  I  was 
thrown  into  the  ford :  I  have  my  belly  full  of  ford. 

Quick.  Alas  the  day  !  good  heart,  that  was  not  her  fault ; 
she  does  so  take  on  with  her  men  ;  they  mistook  their  erection. 

Fal.  So  did  I  mine,  to  build  upon  a  foolish  woman's 
promise. 

Quick.  Well,  she  laments,  sir,  for  it,  that  it  would  yearn 
your  heart  to  see  it.     Her  husband   goes  this  morning  a 


Act  Ill.J        MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  171 

birding ;  she  desires  you  once  more  to  come  to  her  between 
eight  and  nine  :  I  must  carry  her  word  quickly  :  she'll  make 
you  amends,  I  warrant  you. 

Fal.  Well,  I  will  visit  her :  Tell  her  so ;  and  bid  her 
think  what  a  man  is :  let  her  consider  his  frailty,  and  then 
judge  of  my  merit. 

Quick.    1  will  tell  her. 

Fal.    Do  so.     Between  nine  and  ten,  say'st  thou  ? 

Quick.    Eight  and  nine,  sir. 

Fal.    Well,  be  gone :  I  will  not  miss  her. 

Quick.    Peace  be  with  you,  sir !  [Exit. 

Fal.  I  marvel  I  hear  not  of  master  Brook ;  he  sent  me 
word  to  stay  within ;  I  like  his  money  well.    0,  here  he  cemes. 

Enter  Ford. 

Ford.   Bless  you,  sir ! 

Fal.  Now,  master  Brook  !  you  come  to  know  what  hath 
passed  between  me  and  Ford's  wife  ? 

Ford.    That,  indeed.   Sir  John,  is  my  business. 

Fal.  Master  Brook,  I  will  not  lie  to  you ;  I  was  at  her 
house  the  hour  she  appointed  me. 

Ford.    And  how  sped  you,  sir? 

Fal.    Very  ill-favoredly,  master  Brook. 

Ford.  How  so,  sir  ?  Did  she  change  her  determination  ? 

Fal.  No,  master  Brook;  but  the  peaking  cornuto,  her 
husband,  master  Brook,  dwelling  in  a  continual  'larum  of 
jealousy,  comes  me  in  the  instant  of  our  encounter,  aft^r 
we  had  embraced,  kissed,  protested,  and,  as  it  were,  spoke 
the  prologue  of  our  comedy ;  and  at  his  heels,  a  rabble  of 
his  companions,  thither  provoked  and  instigated  by  his  dis- 
temper, and,  forsooth,  to  search  his  house  for  his  wife's  love. 

Ford.    What,  while  you  were  there  ? 

Fal.    While  I  was  there. 

Ford.  And  did  he  search  for  you,  and  could  not  find  you? 

Fal.  You  shall  hear.  As  good  luck  would  have  it,  comes 
in  one  mistress  Page ;  gives  intelligence  of  Ford's  approach ; 
and,  by  her  invention,  and  Ford's  wife's  distraction,  they 
conveyed  me  into  a  buck-basket. 

Ford.    A  buck-basket? 

Fal.  By  the  Lord,  a  buck-basket :  rammed  me  in  with 
foul  shirts  and  smocks,  socks,  foul  stockings,  and  greasy 
napkins  ;  that,  master  Brook,  there  was  the  rankest  com 
pound  of  villanous  smell,  that  ever  oflended  nostril. 

Ford.    And  how  long  lay  you  there  ? 

Fal.  Nay,  you  shall  hear,  master  Brook,  what  I  have 
suffered  to  bring  this  woman  to  evil  for  your  good.  Being 
thus  crammed  into  a  basket,  a  couple  of  Ford's  knaves,  his 


172  MEKKY  WIVES  OF  WTNDSOK.        [Act  III 

hinds,  wcrf  called  forth  by  their  mistress,  to  carry  me  in 
the  name  of  foul  clothes  to  Datchct-lane :  they  took  me  on 
their  shonhlcrs  ;  met  the  jealous  knave  their  master  in  the 
door;  who  asked  them  once  or  twice  what  they  had  in  their 
basket :  I  quaked  for  fear,  lest  the  lunatic  knave  Avould 
have  searched  it ;  but  Fate,  ordaining  he  should  be  a  cuckold, 
held  his  hand.  Well ;  on  went  he  for  a  search,  and  away 
went  1  for  foul  clothes.  But  mark  the  sequel,  master  Brook : 
1  suffered  tlie  pangs  of  three  several  deaths ;  first,  an  intol- 
erable fright,  to  be  detected  with  a  jealous  rotten  belhvether: 
next,  to  be  compassed  like  a  good  bilbo,  in  the  circumference 
of  a  peck,  hilt  to  point,  heel  to  head :  and  then,  to  be  stopped 
in,  like  a  strong  distillation,  with  stinking  clothes  that  fretted 
in  their  own  grease :  think  of  that, —  a  man  of  my  kidney, 
— think  of  that ;  that  am  as  subject  to  heat  as  butter  ;  a  man 
of  continual  dissolution  and  thaw ;  it  was  a  miracle  to  'scape 
suffocation.  And  in  the  height  of  this  bath,  when  I  was 
more  than  half  stewed  in  grease,  like  a  Dutch  dish,  to  be 
thrown  into  the  Thames,  and  cooled,  glowing  hot,  in  that 
surge,  like  a  horse-shoe  ;  think  of  that ;  —  hissing  hot, — 
think  of  that,  master  Brook. 

Ford.  In  good  sadness,  sir,  I  am  sorry  that  for  my  sake 
you  have  suffered  all  this.  My  suit  then  is  desperate ;  you'll 
undertake  her  no  more  ? 

Fal.  Master  Brook,  I  will  be  thrown  into  ^Etna,  as  I  have 
been  into  Thames,  ere  I  will  leave  her  thus.  Her  husband 
is  this  morning  gone  a  birding :  I  have  received  from  her 
another  embassy  of  meeting ;  'twixt  eight  and  nine  is  the 
hour,  master  Brook. 

Ford.    'Tis  past  eight  already,  sir. 

Fal.  Is  it  ?  I  will  then  address  me  to  my  appointment. 
Come  to  me  at  your  convenient  leisure,  and  you  shall  know 
how  I  speed ;  and  the  conclusion  shall  be  crowned  with  your 
enjoying  her:  Adieu.  You  shall  have  her,  Master  Brook; 
master  Brook,  you  shall  cuckold  Ford.  [Exit. 

Ford  Hum  !  ha !  is  this  a  vision  ?  is  this  a  dream  ?  do  I 
sleep  ?  Master  Ford,  awake  ;  aw^ake,  master  Ford ;  there's 
a  hole  made  in  your  best  coat,  master  Ford.  This  'tis  to 
be  married !  this  'tis  to  have  linen,  and  buck -baskets !  — 
Well,  I  will  proclaim  myself  Avhat  I  am :  I  will  now  take 
the  lecher;  he  is  at  my  house:  he  cannot  'scape  me;  'tis 
impossible  he  should  ;  he  cannot  creep  into  a  halfpenny  purse, 
nor  into  a  pepper-box :  but,  lest  the  devil  that  guides  him 
shculi  aid  him,  I  will  search  impossible  places.  Though 
what  I  am  I  cannot  avoid,  yet  to  be  what  I  would  not,  shall 
not  make  me  tame :  if  I  have  horns  to  make  one  mad,  let 
the  pro7erb  go  with  me,  I'll  be  horn  mad.  [Exit 


Act  IV.]       MEKRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  173 

ACT   IV 

SCENE  I.     The  Street. 

Enter  Mrs.  Page,  Mrs.  Quickly,  and  William. 

Mrs.  Page.   Is  he  at  master  Ford's  already,  think'st  thou ? 

Quick.  Sure,  he  is  by  this;  or  will  be  presently:  but 
truly,  he  is  very  courageous  mad,  about  his  throwing  into 
the  water.     Mistress  Ford  desires  you  to  come  suddenly. 

Mrs.  Page.  I'll  be  with  her  by  and  by  ;  I'll  but  bring  my 
young  man  here  to  school :  Look,  where  his  master  comes  ; 
'tis  a  playing-day,  I  see. 

Enter  Sir  Hugh  Evans. 

How  now,   Sir  Hugh  ?  no  school  to-day  ? 

Eva.    No  :  master  Slender  is  let  the  boys  leave  to  play. 

Quick.    Blessing  of  his  heart ! 

Mrs.  Page.  Sir  Hugh,  my  husband  says,  my  son  profits 
nothing  in  the  world  at  his  book ;  I  pray  you,  ask  him  some 
questions  in  his  accidence. 

Eva.    Come  hither,  William  ;  hold  up  your  head  ;  come. 

Mrs.  Page.  Come  on,  sirrah  ;  hold  up  your  head ;  answer 
your  master,  be  not  afraid. 

Eva.    Williams,  how  many  numbers  is  in  nouns  ? 

Will.    Two. 

Quick.  Truly,  I  thought  there  had  been  one  number  more ; 
because  they  say,  od's  nouns. 

Eva.   Peace  your  tattlings.     What  is  fair,  William  ? 

Will.    Pulcher. 

Quick.  Poulcats !  there  are  fairer  things  than  poulcats, 
sure. 

Eva.  You  are  a  very  simplicity  'oman ;  I  pray  you,  peace. 
"Wliat  is  lapis,  William  ? 

Will.    A  stone. 

Eva.    And  what  is  a  stone,  William  ? 

Will.   A  pebble. 

Eva.    No,  it  is  lapis  ;  I  pray  you  remember  in  your  prain. 

Will.   Lapis. 

Eva.  That  is  good,  William.  What  is  he,  William,  that 
does  lend  articles  ? 

Will.  Articles  are  borrowed  of  the  pronoun  ;  and  be 
thus  declined,  —  Singulariter,  nominativo,  hie,  hxc,  hoc. 

Eva.  Nominativo,  hig,  hag,  hog  ;  pray  you,  mark :  grni- 
tiio,  hujus :  Well,  what  is  your  accusative  case  ? 

p* 


174  MERllY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.        [Act  IV. 

Will    Accusativo,  Jiinc. 

Eva.  I  pray  you,  have  your  remembrance,  cliild ;  Aceu- 
sativo,  Jiin(j,  hang,  hog. 

Quick,    llang  hog  is  Latin  for  bacon,  I  warrant  you. 

Eva.  Leave  your  prabbles,  'oman.  What  is  the  focative 
case,  William  ? 

Will.    0  —  vocativo,  0. 

Eva.    Remember,  William ;  focative  is  caret. 

Quick.    And  that's  a  good  root. 

Eva.    'Oman,  forbear. 

Mrs.  Page.    Peace. 

Eva.    What  is  your  genitive  ease  plural,  William  ? 

Will.    Grenitive  case  P 

Eva.   Ay. 

Will.    Genitivo,  —  horum,  harum,  horum. 

Quick.  'Vengeance  of  Jenny's  case  !  fie  on  her  !  —  never 
name  her,  child,  if  she  be  a  whore. 

Eva.    For  shame,  'oman. 

Quick.  You  do  ill  to  teach  the  child  such  words :  he 
teaches  him  to  hick  and  to  hack,  which  they'll  do  fast 
enough  of  themselves  ;  and  to  call  horum  :  —  fie  upon  you  ! 

Eva.  'Oman,  art  thou  lunatics  ?  hast  thou  no  understand- 
ings for  thy  cases,  and  the  numbers  of  the  genders  ?  Thou 
art  as  foolish  Christian  creatures  as  I  would  desires. 

Mrs.  Page.    Pr'ythee  hold  thy  peace. 

Eva.  Show  me  now,  William,  some  declensions  of  your 
pronouns. 

Will.    Forsooth,  I  have  forgot. 

Eva.  It  is  ki,  kae,  cod ;  if  you  forget  your  kies,  your 
kses,  and  your  cods,  you  must  be  preeches.  Go  your  ways, 
and  play,  go. 

Mrs.  Page.  He  is  a  better  scholar  than  I  thought  he  wa,s. 

Eva.  He  is  a  good  sprag  memory.  Farewell,  mistress 
Page. 

Mrs.  Page.  Adieu,  good  Sir  Hugh.  [Exit  SiR  Hugh.] 
Get  you  home,  boy. — Come,  we  stay  too  long.        \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.     A  Room  in  Ford's  Rouse. 
Enter  Falstafp  and  Mrs.  Ford. 

Fal.  Mistress  Ford,  your  sorrow  hath  eaten  up  my  suffer- 
ance :  I  see,  you  are  obsequious  in  your  love,  and  I  profess 
requital  to  a  hair's  breadth ;  not  only.  Mistress  Ford,  in  the 
simple  office  of  love,  but  in  all  the  accoutrement,  complement, 
and  ceremony  of  it.    But  are  you  sure  of  your  husband  now  ? 


Act  IV.]        MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  175 

Mrs.  Ford.    He's  a  birding,  sweet  Sir  John. 

Mrs.  Page.  [  Wit]nn.~\  What  hoa,  gossip  Ford  !  what  hoal 

Mrs.  Ford.    Step  into  the  chamber,   Sir  John. 

i^Exit  Falstaff. 
Enter  Mrs.  Page. 

Mrs.  Page.  How  now,  sweetheart  ?  who's  at  home  beside 
yourself  ? 

3Irs.  Ford.    Why,  none  but  mine  own  people. 

Mrs.  Page.    Indeed  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.    No,  certainly;  —  speak  louder.  \^Aside, 

Mrs.  Page.  Truly,  I  am  so  glad  you  have  nobody  here. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Why,  woman,  your  husband  is  in  his  old 
lunes  again :  he  so  takes  on  yonder  with  my  husband ;  so 
rails  against  all  married  mankind ;  so  curses  all  Eve's 
daughters,  of  what  complexion  soever ;  and  so  buffets  him- 
self on  the  forehead,  crying.  Peer  out,  jyeer  out  I  that  any 
madness,  I  ever  yet  beheld,  seemed  but  tameness,  civility, 
and  patience,  to  this  his  distemper  he  is  in  now :  I  am  glad 
the  fat  knight  is  not  here. 

Mrs.  Ford.    Why,  does  he  talk  of  him  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Of  none  but  him  ;  and  swears,  he  was  carried 
out,  the  last  time  he  searched  for  him,  in  a  basket ;  protests 
to  my  husband  he  is  now  here ;  and  hath  drawn  him  and 
the  rest  of  their  company  from  their  sport,  to  make  another 
experiment  of  his  suspicion :  but  I  am  glad  the  knight  is 
not  here ;  now  he  shall  see  his  own  foolery. 

Mrs.  Ford.    How  near  is  he,  mistress  Page  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Hard  by ;  at  street  end ;  he  will  be  here 
anon. 

Mrs.  Ford.    I  am  undone!  —  the  knight  is  here. 

Mrs.  Page.  Why,  then  you  are  utterly  shamed,  and  he's 
but  a  dead  man.  What  a  woman  are  you?  —  Away  with 
him,  away  with  him,  better  shame  than  murder. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Which  way  should  he  go  ?  how  should  I 
bestow  him  ?  Shall  I  put  him  into  the  basket  again  ? 

Re-enter  Falstaff. 

Fal.  No,  I'll  come  no  more  i'  the  basket :  May  I  not  go 
out  ere  he  come  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Alas,  three  of  master  Ford's  brothers  watch 
the  door  with  pistols,  that  none  shall  issue  out ;  otherwise 
you  might  slip  away  ere  he  came.    But  what  make  you  here  ? 

Fal.    What  shall  I  do?  —  I'll  creep  up  into  the  chimney. 

Mrs.  Ford.  There  they  always  used  to  discharge  their 
birding-pieces  :   Creep  into  the  kiln-hole. 


176  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.        [Act  IY 

Fal    Where  is  it? 

il/rs.  Ford.  He  will  seek  there,  on  mj  word.  Neither 
press,  coffer,  chest,  trunk,  well,  vault,  but  he  hath  an  abstract 
for  the  remembrance  of  such  places,  and  goes  to  them  by 
his  note :   There  is  no  hiding  you  in  the  house. 

Fal.    I'll  go  out,  then. 

Mrs.  Page.  If  you  go  out  in  your  own  semblance,  you 
die,  Sir  John.     Unless  you  go  out  disguised, — 

Mrs.  Ford.    How  might  we  disguise  him  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Alas  the  day,  I  know  not.  There  is  no 
woman's  gOAvn  big  enough  for  him ;  otherwise,  he  might  put 
ou  a  hat,  a  muffler,  and  a  kerchief,  and  so  escape. 

Fal.  Good  hearts,  devise  something :  any  extremity, 
rather  than  a  mischief. 

Mrs.  Ford.  My  maid's  aunt,  the  fat  woman  of  Brentford, 
has  a  gown  above. 

Mrs.  Page.  On  my  word,  it  will  serve  him ;  she's  as  big 
as  he  is ;  and  there's  her  thrumed  hat,  and  her  muffler  too : 
Run  up.  Sir  John. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Go,  go,  sweet  Sir  John :  mistress  Page  and 
I  will  look  some  linen  for  your  head. 

Mrs.  Page.  Quick,  quick ;  we'll  come  dress  you  straight : 
put  on  the  gown  the  while.  [Exit  Falstaff. 

3Irs.  Ford.  I  would  my  Irusband  would  meet  him  in  thia 
shape :  he  cannot  abide  the  old  woman  of  Brentford ;  he 
swears  she's  a  witch ;  forbade  her  my  house,  and  hath 
threatened  to  beat  her. 

Mrs.  Page.  Heaven  guide  him  to  thy  husband's  cudgel; 
and  the  devil  guide  his  cudgel  afterwards  ! 

Mrs.  Ford.    But  is  my  husband  coming  ? 

3Irs.  Page.  Ay,  in  good  sadness,  is  he ;  and  talks  of 
the  basket  too,  howsoever  he  hath  had  intelligence. 

3Irs.  Ford.  We'll  try  that ;  for  I'll  appoint  my  men  to 
carry  the  basket  again,  to  meet  him  at  the  door  with  it,  as 
they  did  last  time. 

Mrs.  Page.  N»ay,  but  he'll  be  here  presently :  let's  go 
dress  him  like  the  witch  of  Brentford. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I'll  first  direct  my  men,  what  they  shall  do 
with  the  basket.     Go  up  ;  I'll  bring  linen  for  him  straight. 

[Exit. 

Mrs.  Page.  Hang  him,  dishonest  varlet !  we  cannot  mis- 
use him  enough. 

We'll  leave  a  proof,  by  that  which  Ave  will  do, 
Wives  may  be  merry,  and  yet  honest  too : 
We  do  not  act  that  often  jest  and  laugh ; 
'Tis  old  but  true,  Still  sivine  eat  all  the  draff. 

[Exit. 


Arr  IV.]         MEREY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  177 

Re-enter  Mrs.  Ford  ivith  two  Servants. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Go,  sirs,  take  the  basket  again  on  your 
shoulders ;  your  master  is  hard  at  door ;  if  he  bid  you  set 
it  down,  obey  him;  quickly,  despatch.  \^Exit. 

1  Serv.    Come,  come,  take  it  up. 

2  Serv.    Pray  heaven,  it  be  not  full  of  the  knight  again. 
1  Serv.    I  hope  not ;  I  had  as  lief  bear  so  much  lead. 

Enter  Ford,  Page,  Shallow,  Caius,  and  Sir  Hugh 

Evans. 

Ford.  Ay,  but  if  it  prove  true,  master  Page,  have  you 
any  way  then  to  unfool  me  again  ?  —  Set  down  the  basket, 
villain  : — Somebody  call  my  wife  : — You,  youth  in  a  basket, 
come  out  here  !  —  0,  you  panderly  rascals  !  there's  a  knot, 
a  ging,  a  pack,  a  conspiracy  against  me :  Now,  shall  the 
devil  be  shamed.  What !  wife,  I  say  !  come,  come  forth ; 
behold  what  honest  clothes  you  send  forth  to  bleaching. 

Page.  Why,  this  passes !  Master  Ford,  you  are  not  to 
go  loose  any  longer ;  you  must  be  pinioned. 

Eva.    W^hy,  this  is  lunatics  !  this  is  mad  as  a  mad  dog  ! 

Shal.    Indeed,  master  Ford,  this  is  not  well ;  indeed. 

Re-enter  Mrs.  Ford. 

Ford.  So  say  I  too,  sir.  —  Come  hither,  mistress  Ford ; 
mistress  Ford,  the  honest  woman,  the  modest  wife,  the  vir- 
•  tuous  creature,  that  hath  the  jealous  fool  to  her  husband! 
—  I  suspect  without  cause,  mistress,  do  I  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  Heaven  be  my  witness,  you  do,  if  you  sus- 
pect me  in  any  dishonesty. 

Ford.    Well  said,  brazen    face ;    hold  it  out. Come 

forth,  sirrah.  \^Pulls  the  clothes  out  of  the  basket. 

Page.    This  passes ! 

Mrs.  Ford.   Are  you  not  ashamed  ?  let  the  clothes  alone. 

Ford.    I  shall  find  you  anon. 

Eva.  'Tis  unreasonable  !  Will  you  take  up  your  wife's 
clothes?     Come  away. 

Ford.    Empty  the  basket,  I  say. 

Mrs.  Ford.    Why,  man,  why, 

Ford.  Master  Page,  as  I  am  a  man,  there  was  one  con- 
veyed out  of  my  house  yesterday  in  this  basket :  Why  may 
not  he  be  there  again  ?  In  my  house  I  am  sure  he  is  :  my 
intelligence  is  ti'ue ;  my  jealousy  is  reasonable :  Pluck  me 
out  all  the  linen. 

Mrs.  Ford.  If  you  find  a  man  there,  he  shall  die  a  flea's 
death. 

Vol.  I.  — 12 


178  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.        [Act  IV. 

Page.    Here's  no  man. 

Shal.  By  my  fidelity,  this  is  not  well,  master  Ford ;  this 
wrongs  you. 

Eva.  Master  Ford,  you  must  pray,  and  not  follow  the 
imaginations  of  your  own  heart :  this  is  jealousies. 

Ford.    Well,  he's  not  here  I  seek  for. 

Page.    No,  nor  no  where  else,  but  in  your  brain. 

Ford.  Help  to  search  my  house  this  one  time ;  if  I  find 
not  what  I  seek,  show  no  color  for  my  extremity,  let  me 
forever  be  your  table  sport ;  let  them  say  of  me,  As  jealous 
as  Ford,  that  searched  a  hollow  walnut  for  his  wife's  leman. 
Satisfy  me  once  more ;  once  more  search  with  me. 

3Irs.  Ford.  W^hat  hoa,  mistress  Page  !  come  you  and  the 
old  woman  down ;  my  husband  will  come  into  the  chamber 

Ford.    Old  woman  !    What  old  woman  is  that  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.    Why,  it  is  my  maid's  aunt  of  Brentford. 

Ford.  A  witch,  a  quean,  an  old  cozening  quean  !  Have 
I  not  forbid  her  my  house  ?  She  comes  of  errands,  does 
she  ?  We  are  simple  men  ;  we  do  not  know  what's  brought 
to  pass  under  the  profession  of  fortune-telling.  She  works 
by  charms,  by  spells,  by  the  figure,  and  such  daubery  as 

this  is  ;  beyond  our  element ;  we  know  nothing. Come 

down,  you  witch,  you  hag,  you ;  come  down,  I  say. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  good,  sweet  husband ;  —  good  gentle- 
men, let  him  not  strike  the  old  woman. 

Enter  Falstaff  m  women  s  clothes,  led  hy  Mrs.  Page. 

Mrs.  Page.  Come,  mother  Pratt,  come,  give  me  your 
hand. 

Ford.    I'll  prat  her : Out  of  my  door,  you  witch  ! 

[heats  hini]  you  rag,  you  baggage,  you  polecat,  you  ronyon  ! 
out !  out !  I'll  conjure  you,  I'll  fortune-tell  you. 

\_Ezit  Falstaff. 

Mrs.  Page.  Are  you  not  ashamed  ?  I  think  you  have 
killed  the  poor  woman. 

3Irs.  Ford.  Nay,  he  will  do  it :  —  Tis  a  goodly  credit  for 
you. 

Ford.    Hang  her,  witch! 

Eva.  By  yea  and  no,  I  think,  the  'oman  is  a  witch  in- 
deed :  I  like  not  when  a  'oman  has  a  great  peard ;  I  spy  a 
great  peard  under  her  muffler. 

Ford.  Will  you  follow,  gentlemen  ?  I  beseech  you,  follow  ? 
see  but  the  issue  of  my  jealousy ;  if  I  cry  out  thus  upon  no 
trail,  never  trust  me  when  I  open  again. 

Page.    Let's  obey  his  humor  a  little  further,  Come,  gen 
tlenien.  \_Exeunt  Page,  Ford,  Shallow,  and  Evans. 


Act  IV.]        MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  179 

Mrs.  Page.    Trust  me,  he  beat  him  most  pitifully. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  by  the  mass,  that  he  did  not ;  he  beat 
him  most  unpitifully,  methought. 

3Irs.  Page.  I'll  have  the  cudgel  hallowed,  and  hang  o'er 
the  altar ;  it  hath  done  meritorious  service. 

Mrs.  Ford.  What  think  you  ?  May  we,  with  the  war- 
rant of  womanhood,  and  the  witness  of  a  good  conscience, 
pursue  him  with  any  further  revenge  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  The  spirit  of  wantonness  is,  sure,  scared  out 
of  him ;  if  the  devil  have  him  not  in  fee  simple,  with  fine 
and  recovery,  he  will  never,  I  think,  in  the  way  of  waste, 
attempt  us  again. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Shall  we  tell  our  husbands  how  we  have  served 
him  ? 

3Irs.  Page.  Yes,  by  all  means  ;  if  it  be  but  to  scrape  the 
figures  out  of  your  husband's  brains.  If  they  can  find  in 
their  hearts,  the  poor  unvirtuous  fat  knight  shall  be  any  fur- 
ther afliicted,  we  two  will  still  be  the  ministers. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I'll  warrant  they'll  have  him  publicly  shamed : 
and,  methinks,  there  would  be  no  period  to  the  jest,  should 
he  not  be  publicly  shamed. 

Mrs.  Page.  Come  to  the  forge  with  it  then ;  shape  it :  I 
would  not  have  things  cool.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.     A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 
Enter  Host  and  Bardolph. 

Bard.  Sir,  the  Germans  desire  to  have  three  of  your 
horses :  the  duke  himself  will  be  to-morrow  at  court,  and 
they  are  going  to  meet  him. 

Host.  What  duke  should  that  be  comes  so  secretly  ?  I 
hear  not  of  him  in  the  court:  Let  me  speak  with  the  gen- 
tlemen ;  they  speak  English  ? 

Bard.    Ay,  sir :  I'll  call  them  to  you. 

Host.  They  shall  have  my  horses ;  but  I'll  make  them 
pay,  I'll  sauce  them  :  they  have  had  my  house  a  week  at 
command  ;  I  have  turned  away  my  other  guests :  they  must 
come  ofi";  I'll  sauce  them  :  come.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.     A  Room  in  Ford's  House. 

Enter  Page,  Ford,  Mrs.  Page,  Mrs.  Ford,  and  Sir 
HuGn  Evans. 

Eva.  'Tis  one  of  the  pest  discretions  of  a  'omau  as  ever 
I  did  look  upon. 


180  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.         [Act  IV 

Page.  And  did  he  send  you  both  these  letters  at  an  instant? 

Mrs.  Page.    Within  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

Ford.   Pardon  me,  wife :  Henceforth  do  what  thou  wilt ; 
E  rather  will  suspect  the  sun  with  cold, 
Than  thee  with  wantonness :  now  doth  thy  honor  stand, 
In  him  that  was  of  late  an  heretic, 
As  firm  as  faith. 

Page.  'Tis  well,  'tis  well;  no  more. 

Be  not  as  extreme  in  submission 
As  in  oifence ; 

But  let  our  plot  go  forward :  let  our  wives 
Yet  once  again,  to  make  us  public  sport. 
Appoint  a  meeting  with  this  old  fat  fellow, 
Where  we  may  take  him,  and  disgrace  him  for  it. 

Ford.    There  is  no  better  way  than  that  they  spoke  of. 

Page.  How !  to  send  him  word  they'll  meet  him  in  the 
park  at  midnight !  fie,  fie ;  he'll  never  come. 

Eva.  You  say,  he  has  been  thrown  into  the  rivers ;  and 
has  been  grievously  peaten,  as  an  old  'oman  ;  methinks  there 
should  be  terrors  in  him,  that  he  should  not  come  ;  methinks 
his  flesh  is  punished,  he  shall  have  no  desires. 

Page.    So  think  I  too. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Devise  but  how  you'll  use  him  when  he  comes, 
And  let  us  two  devise  to  bring  him  thither. 

Mrs.  Page.    There  is  an  old  tale  goes,  that  Heme  the 
hunter. 
Sometime  a  keeper  here  in  Windsor  forest, 
Doth  all  the  winter  time,  at  still  midnight, 
Walk  round  about  an  oak,  with  great  ragg'd  horns ; 
And  there  he  blasts  the  tree,  and  takes  the  cattle ; 
And  makes  milch-kine  yield  blood,  and  shakes  a  chain 
In  a  most  hideous  and  dreadful  manner : 
You  have  heard  of  such  a  spirit ;  and  well  you  know 
The  superstitious  idle-headed  eld 
Received,  and  did  deliver  to  our  age. 
This  tale  of  Heme  the  hunter  for  a  truth. 

Page.    Why,  yet  there  want  not  many,  that  do  fear 
In  deep  of  night  to  walk  by  this  Heme's  oak ; 
But  what  of  this? 

Mrs.  Ford.    Marry,  this  is  our  device ; 
That  Falstaff  at  that  oak  shall  meet  with  us. 
Disguised  like  Heme,  with  huge  horns  on  his  head. 

Page.    Well,  let  it  not  be  doubted  but  he'll  come. 
And  in  this  shape :  When  you  have  brought  him  thither, 
What  shall  be  done  with  him  ?  what  is  your  plot  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  That  likewise  have  we  thought  upon,  and  thua : 


ACT  IV.]        MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  181 

Nan  Page  my  daughter,  and  my  little  son, 

And  three  or  four  more  of  their  growth,  we'll  dress 

Like  urchins,  ouphes,  and  fairies,  green  and  white, 

With  rounds  of  waxen  tapers  on  their  heads, 

And  rattles  in  their  hands :   upon  a  sudden. 

As  Falstaif,  she,  and  I,  are  newly  met. 

Let  them  from  forth  a  saw-pit  rush  at  once 

With  some  diflfused  song:   upon  their  sight. 

We  two  in  great  amazedness  will  fly : 

Then  let  them  all  encircle  him  about. 

And,  fairy-like,  to  pinch  the  unclean  knight; 

And  ask  him,  why,  that  hour  of  fairy  revel, 

In  their  so  sacred  paths  he  dares  to  tread, 

In  shape  profane. 

Mrs.  Ford.  And  till  he  tell  the  truth, 

Let  the  supposed  fairies  pinch  him  sound, 
And  burn  him  with  their  tapers. 

Mrs.  Page.  The  truth  being  known, 

We'll  all  present  ourselves;  dis-horn  the  spirit, 
And  mock  him  home  to  Windsor. 

Ford.  The  children  must 

Ee  practised  well  to  this,  or  they'll  ne'er  do't. 

Eva.    I  will  teach  the  children  their  behaviors  ;  and  I  will 
belike  a  Jack-an-apes  also,  to  burn  the  knight  with  my  taber. 

Ford.    That  will  be  excellent.     I'll  go  buy  them  vizards. 

Mrs.  Page.    My  Nan  shall  be  the  queen  of  all  the  fairies, 
Finely  attired  in  a  robe  of  white. 

Page.    That  silk  will  I  go  buy;  —  and  in  that  time 
Shall  master  Slender  steal  my  Nan  away, 
And  marry  her  at  Eton.  [_Aside.']     Go,  send  to  Falstaff 
straight. 

Ford.    Nay,  I'll  to  him  again  in  name  of  Brook: 
He'll  tell  me  all  his  purpose :  Sure,  he'll  come. 

Mrs.  Page.    Fear  not  you  that :  Go,  get  us  properties, 
And  tricking  for  our  fairies. 

Eva.    Let  us  about  it :    It  is  admirable    pleasures,  and 
fery  honest  knaveries. 

[Exeunt  Page,  Ford,  and  Evans. 

MrB.  Page.    Go,  mistress  Ford, 
Send  quickly  to  Sir  John,  to  know  his  mind. 

[Exit  Mrs.  Ford. 
I'll  to  the  doctor ;  he  hath  my  good  Avill, 
And  none  but  he,  to  marry  with  Nan  Page. 
That  Slendor,   though  well  landed,  is  an  idiot; 
And  he  my  husband  best  of  all  aifects: 
The  doctor  is  well  moneyed,  and  his  friends 

Q 


182  MERlir  WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.        [Act  17. 

Potent  at  court:  he,  none  but  he,  shall  have  her, 
Thouffh  twenty  thousand  worthier  come  to  crave  her. 

IJEJxii. 

SCENE  V.     A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 
Enter  Host  and  Simple. 

Host.  What  would'st  thou  have,  boor  ?  what,  thick-skin  ? 
speak,  breathe,  discuss ;  brief,  short,  quick,  snap. 

Sim.  Marry,  sir,  I  come  to  speak  with  Sir  John  Falstaff 
from  master  Slender. 

Host.  There's  his  chamber,  his  house,  his  castle,  hia 
standing-bed,  and  truckle-bed ;  'tis  painted  about  with  the 
story  of  the  prodigal,  fresh  and  new :  Go,  knock  and  call ; 
he'll  speak  like  an  Antliropophaginian  unto  thee :  Knock, 
I  say. 

Sim.  There's  an  old  woman,  a  fat  woman,  gone  up  into 
his  chamber  ;  I'll  be  so  bold  as  stay,  sir,  till  she  come  down  : 
I  come  to  speak  with  her,  indeed. 

Host.  Ha  !  a  fat  woman  !  the  knight  may  be  robbed :  I'll 
call.  —  Bully  knight !  Bully  Sir  John  !  speak  from  thy 
lungs  military :  Art  thou  there  ?  it  is  thine  host,  thine 
Ephesian,   calls. 

Fal.    \_Ahove.'\     How  now,  mine  host? 

Host.  Here's  a  Bohemian-Tartar  tarries  the  coming  down 
of  thy  fat  woman  :  Let  her  descend,  bully,  let  her  descend ; 
my  chambers  are  honorable  :  Fie  !  privacy  ?  fie ! 

Enter  Falstaff. 

Fal.  There  was,  mine  host,  an  old  fat  woman  even  now 
with  me ;  but  she's  gone. 

Sim.  Pray  you,  sir,  was't  not  the  wise  woman  of  Brentford? 

Fal.  Ay,  marry,  was  it,  muscle-shell.  What  would  you 
with  her  ? 

Sim.  My  master,  sir,  my  master  Slender,  sent  to  her, 
seeing  her  go  through  the  streets,  to  know,  sir,  whether  one 
Nym,  sir,  that  beguiled  him  of  a  chain,  had  the  chain,  or  no. 

Fal.    I  spake  with  the  old  woman  about  it. 

Sim.    And  what  says  she,  I  pray,  sir  ? 

Fal.  Marry,  she  says,  that  the  very  same  man  that  be- 
guiled master  Slender  of  his  chain,  cozened  him  of  it. 

Sim.  I  would  I  could  have  spoken  with  the  woman  her- 
self; I  had  other  things  to  have  spoken  with  her  too  from 
him. 

Fal.    What  are  they?  let  us  know. 

Host.   Ay,  come ;  quick. 


Act  IY]        MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  183 

Sim.    I  may  not  conceal  them,  sir. 

Fal.    C  tnceal  them,  or  thou  diest. 

Sim.  Why,  sir,  they  were  nothing  but  about  mistress 
Anne  Page ;  to  know  if  it  were  my  master's  fortune  to 
have  her,  or  no. 

Fal.    'Tis,   'tis  his  fortune. 

Sim.    What,  sir  ? 

Fal.  To  have  her, —  or  no :  Go ;  say  the  woman  told 
me  so. 

Sim.    May  I  be  so  bold  to  say  so,  sir? 

Fal.    Ay,  Sir  Tike ;  who  more  bold  ? 

Sim.  I  thank  your  worship :  I  shall  make  my  master 
glad  with  these  tidings.  [Uxit  Simple. 

Host.  Thou  art  clerkly,  thou  art  clerkly,  Sir  John :  Was 
there  a  wise  woman  with  thee  ? 

Fal.  Ay,  that  there  was,  mine  host ;  one  that  hath  taught 
me  more  wit  than  ever  I  learned  before  in  my  life :  and  I 
paid  nothing  for  it  neither,  but  was  paid  for  my  learning. 

F7iter  Bardolph. 

Bard.    Out,  alas,  sir  !  cozenage  !  mere  cozenage  ! 

Host.  Where  be  my  horses  ?  speak  well  of  them,  varletlo. 

Bard.  Run  away  with  the  cozeners :  for  so  soon  as  I 
came  beyond  Eton,  they  threw  me  off,  from  behind  one  of 
them,  in  a  slough  of  mire ;  and  set  spurs,  and  away,  like 
three  German  devils,  three  Doctor  Faustuses. 

Host.  They  are  gone  but  to  meet  the  duke,  villain :  do 
not  say  they  be  fled ;  Germans  are  honest  men. 

Fnter  Sir  Hugh  Evans. 

Fva.    Where  is  mine  host  ? 

ffost.    What  is  the  matter,  sir? 

Fva.  Have  a  care  of  your  entertainments :  there  is  a 
friend  of  mine  come  to  town,  tells  me,  there  is  three  cousin 
germans,  that  has  cozened  all  the  hosts  of  Readings,  of 
Maidenhead,  of  Colebrook,  of  horses  and  money.  I  tell 
you  for  good-will,  look  you :  you  are  wise,  and  full  of  gibes 
and  vlouting-stogs ;  and  it  is  not  convenient  you  sliould  be 
cozened :  Fare  you  well.  \_Fxit. 

Enter  Doctor  Caius. 

Cains.    Vere  is  mine  Host  de  Jarterre  ? 

Host.  Here,  master  doctor,  in  perplexity,  and  doubtful 
dilemma. 

Caius.  I  cannot  tell  va-t  is  dat :  but  it  is  tell  a-me,  dat 
you  make  grand  preparation  for  a  duke  de  Jarmany :  by  my 


184  MEKllY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  [Act  V 

trot  dere  is  no  duke,  dat  the  court  is  know  to  come ;  I  tell 
you  for  good  vill :  Adieu.  [^J'Jzit. 

Host.  Hue  and  cry,  villain,  go: — assist  me,  knight;  I 
am  undone  :  —  fly,  run,  hue  and  cry,  villain !  I  am  undone ! 

{^Exeunt  Host  and  Bardolph. 

Fal.  I  would  all  the  world  might  be  cozened ;  for  I  have 
been  cozened  and  beaten  too.  If  it  should  come  to  the  ear 
of  the  court,  how  I  have  been  transformed,  and  how  my 
transformation  hath  been  washed  and  cudgelled,  they  would 
melt  me  out  of  my  fat,  drop  by  drop,  and  liquor  fishermen's 
boots  with  me  ;  I  warrant  they  would  whip  me  with  their 
fine  wits,  till  I  were  as  crest-fallen  as  a  dried  pear.  I  never 
prospered  since  I  forswore  myself  at  Primero.  Well,  if  my 
mind  were  but  long  enough  to  say  my  prayers,  I  would  re- 
pent.— 

Enter  Mrs.  Quickly. 

Now  !  whence  come  you  ? 

Quick.    From  the  two  parties,  forsooth. 

Fal.  The  devil  take  one  party,  and  his  dam  the  other, 
and  so  they  shall  be  both  bestowed !  I  have  suifered  more 
for  their  sakes,  more  than  the  villanous  inconstancy  of  man's 
disposition  is  able  to  hear. 

Quick.  And  have  not  they  suffered  ?  Yes,  I  warrant, 
speciously  one  of  them ;  mistress  Ford,  good  heart,  is  beaten 
black  and  blue,  that  you  cannot  see  a  white  spot  about  her. 

Fal.  What  tell'st  thou  me  of  black  and  blue !  I  was 
beaten  myself  into  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow,  and  I  was 
like  to  be  apprehended  for  the  witch  of  Brentford  :  but  that 
my  admirable  dexterity  of  wit,  my  counterfeiting  the  action 
of  an  old  woman,  delivered  me,  the  knave  constable  had 
set  me  i'  the  stocks,  i'  the  common  stocks,  for  a  witch. 

Quick.  Sir,  let  me  speak  with  you  in  your  chamber  ;  you 
shall  hear  how  things  go ;  and,  I  warrant,  to  your  content. 
Here  is  a  letter  will  say  somewhat.  Good  hearts,  what  ado 
here  is  to  bring  you  together  !  Sure,  one  of  you  does  not 
serve  heaven  well,  that  you  are  so  crossed. 

Fal.    Come  up  into  my  chamber.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.     Another  Room  in  the  G-arter  Inn. 
Enter  Fenton  ayid  Host. 

Host.  Master  Fenton,  talk  not  to  me ;  my  mind  is  heavy, 
I  will  give  over  all. 

Fent     Yet  hear  me  speak  :  Assist  me  in  my  purpose, 


Act  v.]         merry  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  185 

And,  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  I'll  give  thee 

A  hundred  pound  in  gold,  more  than  your  loss. 

Host.    I  will  hear  you,  master  Fenton ;  and  I  mil,  at  the 
least,  keep  your  counsel. 

Fent.    From  time  to  time  I  have  acquainted  you 
With  the  dear  love  I  hear  to  fair  Anne  Page ; 
Who,  mutually,  hath  answered  my  affection 
(So  far  forth  as  herself  might  be  her  chooser) 
Even  to  my  wish :  I  have  a  letter  from  her 
Of  such  contents  as  you  will  wonder  at ; 
The  mirth  whereof  so  larded  with  my  matter, 
That  neither,  singly,  can  be  manifested, 
Without  the  show  of  both ;  —  wherein  fat  Falstaff 
Hath  a  great  scene :  the  image  of  the  jest 

[^Showing  the  letter. 
I'll  show  you  here  at  large.     Hark,  good  mine  host: 
To-night  at  Heme's  oak,  just  'twixt  twelve  and  one, 
Must  my  sweet  Nan  present  the  fairy  queen; 
The  purpose  why,  is  here ;  in  which  disguise, 
While  other  jests  are  something  rank  on  foot, 
Her  father  hath  commanded  her  to  slip 
Away  with  Slender,  and  with  him  at  Eton 
Immediately  to  marry :  she  hath  consented. 
Now,  sir. 

Her  mother,  even  strong  against  that  match, 
And  firm  for  doctor  Caius,   hath  appointed 
That  he  shall  likewise  shuffle  her  away, 
While  other  sports  are  tasking  of  their  minds. 
And  at  the  deanery,  where  a  priest  attends, 
Straight  marry  her :  to  this  her  mother's  plot 
She,  seemingly  obedient,  likewise  hath 
Made  promise  to  the  doctor.  —  Now,  thus  it  rests :  — 
Her  father  means  she  shall  be  all  in  white ; 
And  in  that  habit,  when  Slender  sees  his  time 
To  take  her  by  the  hand,   and  bid  her  go. 
She  shall  go  with  him:  —  her  mother  hath  intended, 
The  better  to  denote  her  to  the  doctor, 
(For  they  must  all  be  masked  and  vizarded,) 
That,  quaint  in  green  she  shall  be  loose  enrobed, 
With  ribands  pendent,  flaring  'bout  her  head; 
And  when  the  doctor  spies  hi^  vantage  ripe, 
To  pinch  her  by  the  hand,  and,  on  that  token, 
The  maid  hath  given  consent  to  go  with  him. 

Host.    Which  means  she  to  deceive?  father,  or  mother? 

Fent.    Both,  my  good  host,  to  go  along  with  me : 
And  here  it  rests,  —  that  you'll  procure  the  vicar 
Q* 


18G  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  [Act  V 

To  stay  for  me  at  church,  'twixt  twelve  and  one, 
And,  in  the  hiwful  name  of  marrying, 
To  give  our  hearts  united  ceremony. 

Host.    Well,  husband  your  device;  I'll  to  th-e  vicar: 
Bring  you  the  maid,  you  shall  not  lack  a  priest. 

Fent.    So  shall  I  evermore  be  bound  to  thee ; 
Besides,  I'll  make  a  present  recompense.  \ExeunU 


ACT    V. 

SCENE  I.     A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 
Enter  Falstaff  and  Mrs.  Quickly. 

Fal.    Pr'ythee,  no  more  prattling;  —  go. I'll  hold: 

This  is  the  third  time  ;  I  hope,  good  luck  lies  in  odd  numbers. 
Away,  go  ;  they  say,  there  is  divinity  in  odd  numbers,  either 
in  nativity,  chance,  or  death.  —  Away. 

Quick.  I'll  provide  you  a  chain ;  and  I'll  do  what  I  can 
to  get  you  a  pair  of  horns. 

Fal.  Away,  I  say ;  time  wears :  hold  up  your  head  and 
mince.  [Fzit  Mrs.  Quickly. 

Fnter  Ford. 

How  now,  master  Brook  ?  Master  Brook,  the  matter  will  be 
known  to-night,  or  never.  Be  you  in  the  Park  about  mid- 
night, at  Heme's  oak,  and  you  shall  see  wonders. 

Ford.  Went  you  not  to  her  yesterday,  sir,  as  you  told 
me  you  had  appointed  ? 

Fal.  I  went  to  her,  master  Brook,  as  you  see,  like  a  poor 
old  man ;  but  I  came  from  her,  master  Brook,  like  a  poor 
old  woman.  That  same  knave.  Ford,  her  husband,  hath  the 
finest  mad  devil  of  jealousy  in  him,  master  Brook,  that  ever 
governed  frenzy.  I  will  tell  you.  —  He  beat  me  grievously, 
in  the  shape  of  a  woman ;  for  in  the  shape  of  man,  master 
Brook,  I  fear  not  Goliath  with  a  weaver's  beam ;  because  1 
know,  also,  life  is  a  shuttle.  I  am  in  haste ;  go  along  with 
me ;  I'll  tell  you  all,  master  Brook.  Since  I  plucked  geese, 
played  truant,  and  whipped  top,  I  knew  not  what  it  was  to 
be  beaten,  till  lately.  Follow  me:  I'll  tell  you  strange 
things  of  this  knave  Ford ;  on  whom  to-night  I  will  be 
revenged,  and  I  will  deliver  his  wife  into  your  hand. — 
Follow :  Strange  things  in  hand,  master  Brook !  follow. 

[^Exeunt. 


Act  v.]         MEERY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  187 

SCENE  II.      Windsor  Park. 
Enter  Page,  Shallow,  and  Slender 

Page.  Come,  come ;  we'll  couch  i'  the  castle  diteh,  till 
we  see  the  light  of  our  fairies.  —  Remember,  son  Slender, 
my  daughter. 

Slen.  Ay,  forsooth  ;  I  have  spoke  with  her,  and  we  have 
a  nay-word  how  to  know  one  another.  I  come  to  her  in 
white,  and  cry,  micm ;  she  cries,  budget ;  and  by  that  we 
know  one  another. 

Shal.  That's  good,  too :  But  what  needs  either  your  mum, 
or  her  budget  ?  the  white  will  decipher  her  well  enough.  — 
It  hath  struck  ten  o'clock. 

Page.  The  night  is  dark ;  light  and  spirits  will  become 
it  well.  Heaven  prosper  our  sport !  No  man  means  evil 
but  the  devil,  and  we  shall  know  him  by  his  horns.  Let's 
away ;  follow  me.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.     The  Street  in  Windsor. 
Enter  Mrs.  Page,  Mrs.  Ford,  and  Dr.  Caius. 

Mrs.  Page.  Master  doctor,  my  daughter  is  in  green , 
when  you  see  your  time,  take  her  by  the  hand,  away  with 
her  to  the  deanery,  and  despatch  it  quickly :  Go  before  into 
the  park  ;  we  two  must  go  together. 

Caius.    I  know  vat  I  have  to  do  :  Adieu. 

Mrs.  Page.  Fare  you  well,  sir.  [Exit  Caius.]  My 
husband  will  not  rejoice  so  much  at  the  abuse  of  Falstaif,  as 
he  will  chafe  at  the  doctor's  marrying  my  daughter :  but 
'tis  no  matter ;  better  a  little  chiding,  than  a  great  deal  of 
heart-break. 

3Irs.  Ford.  Where  is  Nan  now,  and  her  troop  of  fairies  ? 
and  the  Welsh  devil,  Hugh  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  They  are  all  couched  in  a  pit  hard  by  Heme's 
oak,  with  obscured  lights ;  which,  at  the  very  instant  of 
Falstaff's  and  our  meeting,  they  will  at  once  display  to  the 
iiight. 

Mrs.  Ford.    That  cannot  choose  but  amaze  him. 

Mrs.  Page.  If  he  be  not  amazed,  he  will  be  mocked ;  if 
be  be  amazed,  he  will  every  way  be  mocked. 

Mrs.  Ford.    We'll  betray  him  finely. 

Mrs.  Page.    Against  such  lewdsters,  and  their  lechery, 
Those  thiit  betray  them  do  no  treachery. 

Mrs.  Ford.    The  hour  draws  on  :  To  the  oak,  to  the  oak ! 

[Exeunt. 


188  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  [Act  V 

SCENE  IV.      Windsor  Park. 
Enter  Sir  Hugh  Evans  and  Fairies. 

Eva.  Tril),  trib,  fairies ;  come  ;  and  remember  your  parts : 
be  pold,  I  pray  you  ;  follow  me  into  the  pit ;  and  when  1 
give  the  watch'ords,  do  as  I  pid  you:  Come,  come;  ti*ib, 
trib.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.     Another  Part  of  the  Park. 

Enter  Falstaff  disguised,  with  a  buck's  head  on. 

Pal.  The  Windsor  bell  hath  struck  twelve;  the  minute 
draws  on  :  Now,  the  hot-blooded  gods  assist  me  : —  Remem- 
ber, Jove,  thou  wast  a  bull  for  thy  Europa ;  love  set  on  thy 
horns  —  0  powerful  love !  that,  in  some  respects,  makes  a 
beast  a  man  ;  in  some  other,  a  man  a  beast.  —  You  were 
also,  Jupiter,  a  swan,  for  the  love  of  Leda ;  —  0  —  omni- 
potent love !  how  near  the  god  drew  to  the  complexion  of  a 
goose! — A  fault  done  first  in  the  form  of  a  beast;  —  0 
Jove,  a  beastly  fault !  and  then  another  fault  in  the  sem- 
blance of  a  fowl ;  think  on't,  Jove ;  a  foul  fault.  —  When 
gods  have  hot  backs,  what  shall  poor  men  do  ?  For  me,  I 
am  here  a  Windsor  stag ;  and  the  fattest,  I  think,  i'  the 
forest :  send  me  a  cool  rut-time,  Jove,  or  who  can  blame  me 
to  piss  my  tallow  ?     Who  comes  here  ?  my  doe  ? 

Enter  Mrs.  Ford  aiid  Mrs.  Page. 

3Irs.  Ford.  Sir  John  ?  art  thou  there,  my  deer  ?  my  male 
deer  ? 

Pal.  My  doe  with  the  black  scut?  —  Let  the  sky  rain 
potatoes ;  let  it  thunder  to  the  tune  of  Green  Sleeves  ;  hail 
kissing-comfits,  and  snow  eringoes ;  let  there  come  a  tem- 
pest of  provocation,  I  will  shelter  me  here. 

[Embracing  her. 

Mrs.  Pord.  Mistress  Page  is  come  with  me,  sweetheart. 

Pal.  Divide  me  like  a  bribe-buck,  each  a  haunch :  I  will 
keep  my  sides  to  myself,  my  shoulders  for  the  fellow  of  this 
walk,  and  my  horns  I  bequeath  your  husbands.  Am  I  a 
woodman  ?  ha  !  Speak  I  like  Herne  the  hunter  ?  —  Why, 
now  is  Cupid  a  child  of  conscience ;  he  makes  restitution. 
As  I  am  a  true  spirit,  welcome !  [N^oise  within. 

Mrs.  Page.    Alas  !    What  noise  ? 

Mrs.  Pord.    Heaven  forgive  our  sins ! 

Pal     What  should  this  be? 

Mrs.  Pord.    1     .  ,  rrm.  jx 

Mrs.  Page,  j  ^"^""^^  ^"^^^ '  ^^'^  ^""^  ""^ 


Act  v.]  MEKRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  189 

Fal.  I  think,  the  devil  will  not  have  me  damned,  lest  the 
oil  that  is  in  me  should  set  hell  on  fire ;  he  would  never  else 
cross  me  thus. 

Enter  Sir  Hugh  Evans,  like  a  satyr ;  Mrs.  Quickly,  and 
Pistol  ;  Anne  Page,  as  the  Fairy  Queen,  attended  ly 
her  brothers  and  others,  dressed  like  fairies,  ivith  waxen 
tapers  on  their  heads. 

Quick.    Fairies,  black,  gray,  green,  and  white, 
You  moonshine  revellers,   and  shades  of  night, 
You  orphan-heirs  of  fixed  destiny. 

Attend  your  ofiice,  and  your  quality. 

Crier  Hobgoblin,  make  the  fairy  o-yes. 

Pist.    Elves,  list  your  names ;  silence,  you  airy  toys. 
Cricket,  to  Windsor  chimneys  shalt  thou  leap : 
Where  fires  thou  find'st  unraked,  and  hearths  unswept, 
There  pinch  the  maids  as  blue  as  bilberry : 
Our  radiant  queen  hates  sluts,  and  sluttery. 

Fal.^  They  are  fairies  ;  he  that  speaks  to  them  shall  die  : 
I'll  wink  and  couch :    No  man  their  works  must  eye. 

{Lies  dotvn  upon  his  face. 

Eva.  Where's  Pede  ? — Go  you,  and  where  you  find  a  maid, 
That,  ere  she  sleep,  has  thrice  her  prayers  said, 
Raise  up  the  organs  of  her  fantasy. 
Sleep  she  as  sound  as  careless  infancy ; 
But  those  as  sleep,  and  think  not  on  their  sins, 
Pinch  them,  arms,  legs,  backs,  shoulders,  sides,  and  shins. 

Quick.    About,  about ; 
Search  Windsor  castle,  elves,  within  and  out : 
Strew  good  luck,  ouphes,  on  every  sacred  room ; 
That  it  may  stand  till  the  perpetual  doom. 
In  state  as  wholesome,  as  in  state  'tis  fit ; 
Worthy  the  owner,  and  the  owner  it. 
The  several  chairs  of  order  look  you  scour 
With  juice  of  balm,  and  every  precious  flower: 
Each  fair  instalment,  coat,  and  several  crest, 
With  loyal  blazon,  evermore  be  blest ! 
And  nightly,  meadow-fairies,  look  you  sing, 
Like  to  the  Garter's  compass,  in  a  ring: 
The  expressure  that  it  bears,  green  let  it  be, 
More  fertile-fresh  than  all  the  field  to  see ; 
And  Hony  soit  qui  mal  y  pense  write. 
In  emerald  tufts,  flowers,  purple,  blue  and  white ; 
Like  sapphire,  pearl,  and  rich  embroidery,  ^ 

Buckled  below  fair  knighthood's  bending  knee;   V 
Fairies  use  flowers  for  their  charactery.  ) 


190  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  [A.ct  V. 

Away ;  disperse :  But,  till  'tis  one  o'clock, 
Our  dance  of  custom  round  about  the  oak 
Of  Heme  the  hunter,  let  us  not  forget. 

Eva.    Pray  you,  lock  hand  in  hand ;  yourselves  in  order 
set; 
And  twenty  glow-worms  shall  our  lanterns  be, 
To  guide  our  measure  round  about  the  tree. 
But,  stay ;  I  smell  a  man  of  middle  earth. 

Fal.    Heaven  defend  me  from  that  Welsh  fairy !  lest  he 
transform  me  to  a  piece  of  cheese  ! 

Pist.    Vile  worm,  thou  wast  o'erlook'd  even  in  thy  birth. 

Quick.    With  trial  fire  touch  me  his  finger-end : 
If  he  be  chaste,  the  flame  will  back  descend, 
And  turn  him  to  no  pain ;  but  if  he  start, 
It  is  the  flesh  of  a  corrupted  heart. 

Pist.    A  trial,  come. 

Eva.    Come,  will  this  wood  take  fire  ? 

\_They  burn  him  tvith  their  tapers. 

Fal.    Oh,  oh,  oh! 

Quick.    Corrupt,  corrupt,  and  tainted  in  desire ! 
About  him,  fairies ;  sing  a  scornful  rhyme ; 
And,  as  you  trip,  still  pinch  him  to  your  time. 

Eva.   It  is  right ;  indeed  he  is  full  of  lecheries  and  iniquity. 

SONG. 

Fie  on  sinful  fantasy  ! 

Fie  on  lust  and  luxury  ! 

Lust  is  hut  a  bloody  fire, 

Kindled  with  unchaste  desire. 
Fed  in  heart ;  whose  flames  aspire, 
As  thoughts  do  blow  them,  higher  and  higher. 
Pinch  him,  fairies,  mutually ; 
Pinch  him  for  his  villany ; 
Pinch  him,  and  burn  him,  and  turn  him  about, 
Till  candles,  and  starlight,  and  moonshine  be  out. 

During  this  song  the  fairies  pinch  Falstaff.  Doctor  Caius 
comes  one  way,  and  steals  away  a  fairy  in  green  ;  Slender 
another  way,  and  takes  off  a  fairy  in  ivhite  ;  and  Fenton 
comes,  and  steals  away  Mrs.  Anne  Page.  A  noise  of 
hunting  is  made  within.  All  the  fairies  run  away. 
Falstaff  pulls  off  his  buck's  head,  and  rises. 

Enter  Page,  Ford,  Mrs.  Page,  and  Mrs.  Ford.     They 
lay  hold  on  him. 

Page.  Nay,  do  not  fly :  I  think  we  have  watched  you  now ; 
Will  none  but  Heme  the  hunter  serve  your  turn  ? 


Act  v.]  merry  WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  191 

Mr».  Page.    I   pray  you,  come ;    hold   up    the  jest   no 
higher :  — 
Now,  good  Sir  John,  how  like  you  Windsor  wives  ? 
See  you  these,  hushand?  do  not  these  fair  yokes 
Become  the  forest  better  than  the  town  ? 

Ford.  Now,  sir,  who's  a  cuckold  now?  —  Master  Brook, 
Falstaff's  a  knave,  a  cuckoldy  knave ;  here  are  his  horns, 
master  Brook  :  And,  master  Brook,  he  hath  enjoyed  nothhig 
of  Ford's  but  his  buck-basket,  his  cudgel,  and  twenty  pounds 
of  money,  which  must  be  paid  to  master  Brook :  his  horses 
are  arrested  for  it,  master  Brook. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Sir  John,  we  have  had  ill  luck ;  we  could 
never  meet.  I  will  never  take  you  for  my  love  again,  but 
I  will  always  count  you  my  deer. 

Fal.    I  do  begin  to  perceive  that  I  am  made  an  ass. 

Ford.    Ay,  and  an  ox  too ;  both  the  proofs  are  extant. 

Fal.  And  these  are  not  fairies  ?  I  was  three  or  four 
times  in  the  thought,  they  were  not  fairies :  and  yet  the 
guiltiness  of  my  mind,  the  sudden  surprise  of  my  powers, 
drove  the  grossness  of  the  foppery  into  a  received  belief, 
in  despite  of  the  teeth  of  all  rhyme  and  reason,  that  they 
were  fairies.  See  now,  how  wit  may  be  made  a  Jack-a-lcnt, 
when  'tis  upon  ill  employment ! 

Fva.  Sir  John  Falstaff,  serve  Got,  and  leave  your  desires, 
and  fairies  will  not  pinse  you. 

Ford.    Well  said,  fairy  Hugh. 

Fva.    And  leave  you  your  jealousies  too,  I  pray  you. 

Ford.  I  will  never  mistrust  my  wife  again,  till  thou  art 
able  to  woo  her  in  good  English. 

Fal.  Have  I  laid  my  brain  in  the  sun,  and  dried  it,  that 
it  wants  matter  to  prevent  so  gross  o'erreaching  as  this? 
Am  I  ridden  with  a  Welsh  goat  too  ?  Shall  I  have  a  cox- 
comb of  frize  ?  'tis  time  I  were  choked  with  a  piece  of  toasted 
cheese. 

Fva.  Seese  is  not  good  to  give  putter ;  your  pelly  is  all 
putter. 

Fal.  Seese  and  putter !  Have  I  lived  to  stand  at  the 
taunt  of  one  that  makes  fritters  of  English  ?  This  is  enough 
to  be  the  decay  of  lust  and  late  walking  through  the  realm. 

Mrs.  Page.  Why,  Sir  John,  do  you  think,  though  we 
would  have  thrust  virtue  out  of  our  hearts  by  the  head  and 
shoulders,  and  have  given  ourselves  without  scruple  to  hell, 
that  ever  the  devil  could  have  made  you  our  delight? 

Ford.    What,  a  hodge-pudding  ?  a  bag  of  flax  ? 


192  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  [Act  V. 

Mrs.  Page.    A  puffed  man  ? 

Page.    Old,  cold,  withered,  and  of  intolerable  entrails? 

Ford.    And  one  that  is  as  slanderous  as  Satan? 

Page.    And  as  poor  as  Job  ? 

Ford.    And  as  wicked  as  his  wife  ? 

Fva.  And  given  to  fornications  and  to  taverns,  and  sack 
and  wine,  and  metheglins,  and  to  drinkings,  and  swearings 
and  starings,  pribbles  and  prabbles  ? 

Fal.  Well,  I  am  your  theme  ;  you  have  the  start  of  me  ; 
I  am  dejected ;  I  am  not  able  to  answer  the  Welsh  flannel ; 
ignorance  itself  is  a  plummet  o'er  me :  use  me  as  you  will. 

Ford.  Marry,  sir,  we'll  bring  you  to  Windsor,  to  one 
master  Brook,  that  you  have  cozened  of  money,  to  whom 
you  should  have  been  a  pander :  over  and  above  that  you 
have  suffered,  I  think,  to  repay  that  money  will  be  a  biting 
affliction. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  husband,  let  that  go  to  make  amends ; 
Forgive  that  sum,  and  so  we'll  all  be  friends. 

Ford.    Well,  here's  my  hand ;  all's  forgiven  at  last. 

Page.  Yet  be  cheerful,  knight :  thou  shalt  eat  a  posset 
to-night  at  my  house ;  where  I  will  desire  thee  to  laugh  at 
my  wife,  that  now  laughs  at  thee :  Tell  her,  master  Slender 
hath  married  her  daughter. 

3Irs.  Page.  Doctors  doubt  that :  If  Anne  Page  be  my 
daughter,  she  is,  by  this,  doctor  Caius's  wife. 

{^Aside. 
Enter  Slender. 

Slen.    Whoo  ?  ho  !  ho  !  father  Page. 

Page.  Son !  how  now  ?  how  now,  son  ?  have  you  des- 
patched ? 

Slen.  Despatched !  —  I'll  make  the  best  in  Gloucester- 
shire know  on't ;  would  I  were  hanged,  la,  else. 

Page.    Of  what,  son  ? 

Slen.  I  came  yonder  at  Eton  to  marry  mistress  Anne 
Page,  and  she's  a  great  lubberly  boy.  If  it  had  not  been 
i'  the  church,  I  would  have  swinged  him,  or  he  should  have 
swinged  me.  If  I  did  not  think  it  had  been  Anne  Page, 
would  I  might  never  stir ;  and  'tis  a  post-master's  boy. 

Page.    Upon  my  life,  then,  you  took  the  wrong. 

Slen.  What  need  you  tell  me  that  ?  I  think  so,  when  I 
took  a  boy  for  a  girl :  If  I  had  been  married  to  him,  for 
all  he  was  in  woman's  apparel,  I  would  not  have  had  him 


A.CT  v.]         MERRY  WIYES  OF  WINDSOR  193 

Page.  Why,  this  is  youi'  own  folly.  Did  ;!o,  I  tell  you 
how  you  should  know  my  daughter  by  her  garments  ? 

Slen.  I  went  to  her  in  white,  and  cried  mum,  and  she  cried 
budget,  as  Anne  and  I  had  appointed ;  and  yet  it  was  not 
Anne,  but  a  post-master's  boy. 

Eva.  Jeshu !  Master  Slender,  cannot  you  see  but  marry 
boys  ? 

Page.    0,  1  am  vexed  at  heart :  What  shall  I  do  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Good  George,  be  not  angry  :  I  knew  of  your 
purpose ;  turned  my  daughter  into  green  ;  and,  indeed,  she 
is  now  with  the  doctor  at  the  deanery,  and  there  married. 

Enter  Caius. 

Caius.  Vere  is  mistress  Page  'i  By  gar,  i  am  cozened : 
1  ha'  married  un  gar(;on,  a  boy  ;  un  fauan,  by  gar,  a  boy; 
it  is  not  Anne  Page :  by  gar,  I  am  cozened. 

Mrs.  Page.    Why,  did  you  take  her  in  green  ? 

Caius.  Ay,  be  gar,  and  'tis  a  boy ;  be  gar,  I'll  raise  all 
Windsor.  [Ex.it  Caius. 

Ford.    This  is  strange  !     Who  hath  got  the  right  Anne  ? 

Page.    My  heart  misgives  me  :  here  comes  master  Fenton. 

Eviter  Fenton  and  Anne  Page. 

How  now,  master  Fenton? 

Anne.    Pardon,  good  father !  good  my  mother,  pardon ! 

Page.  Kow,  mistress  ?  how  chance  you  went  not  with 
master  Slender  ? 

Mrs.  Page.    Why  went  you  not  with  master  doctor,  maid  'i 

Pent.    You  do  amaze  her :   Hear  the  truth  of  it. 
You  would  have  married  her  most  shamefully, 
Where  there  was  no  proportion  held  in  love. 
The  truth  is,  she  and  I,  long  since  contracted, 
Are  noAv  so  sure  that  nothing  can  dissolve  us. 
The  olience  is  holy  that  she  hath  committed: 
And  this  deceit  loses  the  name  of  craft, 
Of  disobedience,  or  unduteous  title ; 
Since  therein  she  doth  evitate  and  shun 
A  thousand  irreligious  cursed  hours. 
Which  forced  marriage  would  have  brought  upon  her. 

Ford.  Stand  not  amazed  :  here  is  no  remedy  :  — 
In  love,  the  heavens  themselves  do  guide  tiie  state; 
Money  buys  lands,  and  wives  are  sold  by  fate. 

Vol.  I.  —  13  r 


194  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR  [Act  V. 

Fal.    1  am  glad,  though  you  have  ta'en  a  special  stand  to 
strike  at  me,  that  your  arrow  hath  glanced. 

Page.   Well,  what  remedy  ?  Fenton,  heaven  give  thee  joy ! 
What  cannot  be  eschewed,  must  be  embraced. 

Fal.    When  night-dogs  run,  all  sorts  of  deer  are  chased. 

Eva.    I  will  dance  and  eat  plums  at  your  wedding. 

3Irs.  Page.  Well,  I  will  muse  no  further: — Master  Fenton, 
Heaven  give  you  many,  many  merry  days  ! 
Good  husband,  let  us  every  one  go  home. 
And  laugh  this  sport  o'er  by  a  country  fire ; 
Sir  John  and  all. 

Ford.  Let  it  be  so  :  —  Sir  John, 

To  master  Brook  you  yet  shall  hold  your  word; 
For  he  to-night  shall  lie  with  mistress  Ford. 

X 'Exeunt. 


TWELFTH  NIGHT; 

OR, 

WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


195 


PERSONS   REPRESENTED. 

Orsino,  Duke  of  Illyria. 

Sebastian,  a  young   Gentleman^  Brother  to  Viols 
Antonio,  a  Sea   Captain,  Friend  to  Sebastiaa. 
A  Sea  Captain,  Friend  to  Viola. 

p     '  '  >•  Gentlemen  attending  on  the  Duke 

Sir  Toby  Belch,   Uncle  of  Olivia 
Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek. 
Malvolio,   Steward  to  Olivia. 

Clown"!'  }  '^'^^^^'^'^  ^'  ^^^^^' 

Olivia,  a  rich  Countess. 
Viola,  in  love  with  the  Duke. 
Mabta,  Olivia's    Woman. 

LordSif  Priests.,  Sailors,  Officer s.  Musicians,  and  other  JlltendantB. 

SCENE.     Ji   City  in  lUyna,  and  the  Sea-coast  near  tt. 


a96) 


TWELFTH  NIGHT; 

OK, 

WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


ACT   I. 

SCENE  I.     An  Apartment  in  the  Duke's  Palace. 
Ente7'  Duke,  Curio,  Lords;    Musicians  attending. 

Duke.    If  music  be  the  food  of  love,  play  on ; 
Give  me  excess  of  it ;   that,  surfeiting. 

The  appetite  may  sicken,  and  so  die. 

That  strain  again  ;  —  it  had  a  dying  fall : 

0,  it  came  o'er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  sound, 

That  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets. 

Stealing,  and  giving  odor.  —  Enough  ;  no  more ; 

'Tis  not  so  sweet  now  as  it  was  before. 

0  spirit  of  love,  how  quick  and  fresh  art  thou ! 

That,  notwithstanding  thy  capacity 

Receiveth  as  the  sea,  nought  enters  there, 

Of  what  validity  and  pitch  soever. 

But  falls  into  abatement  and  low  price. 

Even  in  a  minute !   so  full  of  shapes  is  fancy, 

That  it  alone  is  high-fantastical. 

Cur.    Will  you  go  hunt,  my  lord  ? 

Duke.  What,  Curio  ? 

Cur.  The  hart 

Duke.    Why,  so  I  do,  the  noblest  that  I  have : 
0,  when  mine  eyes  did  see  Olivia  first, 
Methought  she  purged  the  air  of  pestilence ; 
That  instant  was  I  turned  into  a  hart ; 
And  my  desires,  like  fell  and  cruel  hounds. 
E'er  since  pursue  me.  —  How  now  ?  what  news  from  her  f 

Enter  Valentine. 

Val.    So  please  my  lord,  I  might  not  be  admitted, 
But  from  her  handmaid  do  return  this  answer : 

R*  (197, 


198  TWELFTH    NIGHT;    JR,  [Act  L 

The  element  itself,  till  seven  years  heat, 

Shall  not  behold  her  face  at  ample  view ; 

But,  like  a  cloistress,  she  will  veiled  walk, 

And  water  once  a  day  her  chamber  round 

With  eye-offending  brine :   all  this,  to  season 

A  brother's  dead  love,  which  she  would  keep  fresh. 

And  lasting,  in  her  sad  remembrance. 

Duhe.    0,  she  that  hath  a  heart  of  that  fine  frame, 
To  pay  this  debt  of  love  but  to  a  brother, 
How  will  she  love,  when  the  rich  golden  shaft 
Hath  killed  the  flock  of  all  affections  else 
That  live  in  her !   when  liver,  brain,  and  heart, 
These  sovereign  thrones,  are  all  supplied,  and  filled 
(Her  sweet  perfections)  with  one  self  king  !  — 
Away  before  me  to  sweet  beds  of  flowers ; 
Love-thoughts  lie  rich,  when  canopied  with  bowers. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.     The  Sea-coast. 
Enter  Viola,  Captain,  and  Sailors. 

Via.    What  country,  friends,  is  this  ? 

Cap.  Illyria,  lady. 

Vio.    And  what  should  I  do  in  Illyria? 
My  brother  he  is  in  Elysium. 
Perchance  he  is  not  drowned :  — What  think  you,  sailors  ? 

Cap.    It  is  perchance  that  you  yourself  were  saved. 

Vio.  0  my  poor  brother !  and  so,  perchance,  may  he  be. 

Cap.    True,  madam :  and,  to  comfort  you  with  chance, 
Assure  yourself,  after  our  ship  did  split. 
When  you,  and  that  poor  number  saved  with  you, 
Hung  on  our  driving  boat,  I  saw  your  brother, 
Most  provident  in  peril,  bind  himself 
(Courage  and  hope  both  teaching  him  the  practice) 
To  a  strong  mast,  that  lived  upon  the  sea ; 
Where,  like  Arion  on  the  dolphin's  back, 
I  saw  him  hold  acquaintance  with  the  waves, 
So  long  as  I  could  see. 

Vio.  For  saying  so,  there's  gold: 

Mine  own  escape  unfoldeth  to  my  hope. 
Whereto  thy  speech  serves  for  authority. 
The  like  of  him.     Know'st  thou  this  country? 

Cap.    Ay,  madam,  well ;  for  I  was  bred  and  born 
Not  three  hours'  travel  from  this  very  place. 

Vio.    Who  governs  here  ? 


ActL]  what   you    will.  199 

Cap.  A  noble  duke,  in  natm-e, 

As  in  his  name. 

Vio.  What  is  his  name  ? 

Cap.  Orsino. 

Vio.    Orsino  !  I  have  heard  my  father  name  him : 
He  was  a  bachelor  then. 

Cap.  And  so  is  now, 

Or  was  so  very  late  :  for  but  a  month 
Ago  I  went  from  hence ;  and  then  'twas  fresh 
In  murmur  (as  you  know,  what  great  ones  do, 
The  less  will  prattle  of,)  that  he  did  seek 
The  love  of  fair  Olivia. 

Vio.  What's  she  ? 

Cap.    A  virtuous  maid,  the  daughter  of  a  count 
That   died  some  twelvemonth  since ;  then  leaving  her 
In  the  protection  of  his  son,  her  brother. 
Who  shortly  also  died :  for  whose  dear  love 
They  say  she  hath  abjured  the  company 
And  sight  of  men. 

Vio.  0  that  I  served  that  lady; 

And  might  not  be  delivered  to  the  world, 
Till  I  had  made  mine  own  occasion  mellow. 
What  my  estate  is ! 

Cap.  That  were  hard  to  compass; 

Because  she  will  admit  no  kind  of  suit. 
No,  not  the  duke's. 

Vio.    There  is  a  fair  behavior  in  thee,  captain; 
And  though  that  nature  with  a  beauteous  wall 
Doth  oft  close  in  pollution,  yet  of  thee 
I  will  believe,  thou  hast  a  mind  that  suits 
With  this  thy  fair  and  outward  character. 
I  pray  thee,  and  I'll  pay  thee  bounteously, 
Conceal  me  what  I  am ;  and  be  my  aid 
For  such  disguise  as,  haply,  shall  become 
The  form  of  my  intent.     I'll  serve  this  duke ; 
Thou  shalt  present  me  as  an  eunuch  to  him ; 
It  may  bo  worth  thy  pains ;  for  I  can  sing, 
A.nd  speak  to  him  in  many  sorts  of  music. 
That  will  allow  me  very  worth  his  service. 
What  else  may  hap,  to  time  I  will  commit ; 
Only  shape  thou  thy  silence  to  my  wit. 

Cap.    Be  you  his   eunuch,  and  your  mute   t'll  be : 
When  my  tongue  blabs,  then  let  mine  eyes  not  see ! 

Vio.    I  thank  thee :  Lead  me  on,  [^Exeunt. 


200  TWELFTH    NIGHT;    OR,  [Act  1 

SCENE  III.     A  Room  in  Olivia's  House. 
Enter  Sir  Toby  Belch  and  Maria. 

Sir  To.  What  a  plague  means  my  niece,  to  take  the 
death  of  her  brother  thus  ?     I'm  sure,  care's  an  enemy  to  life. 

3Iar.  By  my  troth,  Sir  Toby,  you  must  come  in  earlier 
o'nights ;  your  cousin,  my  lady,  takes  great  exceptions  to 
your  ill  hours. 

Sir  To.    Why,  let  her  except  before  excepted. 

3Iar.  Ay,  but  you  must  confine  yourself  within  the 
modest  limits  of  order. 

Sir  To.  Confine  ?  I'll  confine  myself  no  finer  than  I  am  : 
these  clothes  are  good  enough  to  drink  in,  and  so  be  these 
boots  too ;  and  they  be  not,  let  them  hang  themselves  in 
their  own  straps. 

3Iar.  That  quaffing  and  drinking  will  undo  you :  I  heard 
my  lady  talk  of  it  yesterday ;  and  of  a  foolish  knight,  that 
you  brought  in  one  night  here,  to  be  her  wooer. 

Sir  To.    Who?     Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek? 

Mar.   Ay,  he. 

Sir  To.    He's  as  tall  a  man  as  any's  in  Illyria. 

Mar.    What's  that  to  the  purpose  ? 

Sir  To.    Why,  he  has  three  thousand  ducats  a  year. 

Mar.  Ay,  but  he'll  have  but  a  year  in  all  these  ducats ; 
he's  a  very  fool  and  a  prodigal. 

Sir  To.  Fie,  that  you'll  say  so  !  he  plays  o'  the  viol-de- 
gambo,  and  speaks  three  or  four  languages  word  for  word 
without  book,  and  hath  all  the  good  gifts  of  nature. 

3far.  He  hath,  indeed,  —  almost  natural :  for,  besides 
that  he's  a  fool,  he's  a  great  quarreller ;  and,  but  that  he 
hath  the  gift  of  a  coward  to  allay  the  gust  he  hath  in  quar- 
relling, 'tis  thought  among  the  prudent,  he  would  quickly 
have  the  gift  of  a  grave. 

Sir  To.  By  this  hand,  they  are  scoundrels,  and  subtracters, 
that  say  so  of  him.     Who  are  they  ? 

3far.  They  that  add  moreover,  he's  drunk  nightly  in  your 
company. 

Sir  To.  With  drinking  healths  to  my  niece ;  I'll  drink 
to  her  as  long  as  there  is  a  passage  in  my  throat,  and  drink 
in  Illyria:  He's  a  coward,  and  a  coystril,  that  will  not  drink 
to  my  niece,  till  his  brains  turn  o'  the  toe  like  a  parish-top 
What,  wench  ?  Ca^^tiliano  volto ;  for  here  comes  Sir  Andrew 
Ague-face. 


Act  I.  WHAT    YOU    WILL.  201 

Enter  Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek. 

Sir  And.    Sir  Toby  Belch  !  how  now,  Sir  Toby  Belch  ? 

Sir  To.    Sweet  Sir  Andrew  ! 

Sir  And.    Bless  you,  fair  shrew. 

3Iar.    And  you  too,  sir. 

Sir  To.    Accost,   Sir  Andrew,  accost. 

Sir  And.    What's  that  ? 

Sir  To.    My  niece's  chamber-maid. 

Sir  And.  Good  mistress  Accost,  I  desire  better  ac- 
quaintance. 

Mar.    My  name  is  Mary,  sir. 

Sir  And.    Good  mistress  Mary  Accost, 

Sir  To.  You  mistake,  knight :  accost  is,  front  her,  board 
her,  woo  her,  assail  her. 

Sir  And.  By  my  troth,  I  would  not  undertake  her  in  this 
company.     Is  that  the  meanijig  of  accost  ? 

Mar.    Fare  you  well,  gentlemen. 

Sir  To.  An  thou  let  part  so,  Sir  Andrew,  'would  thou 
inight'st  never  draw  sword  again. 

Sir  And.  An  you  part  so,  mistress,  I  would  I  might 
never  draw  sword  again.  Fair  lady,  do  you  think  you  have 
fools  in  hand  ? 

Mar.    Sir,  I  have  not  you  by  the  hand. 

Sir  And.    Marry,  but  you  shall  have  ;  and  here's  my  hand. 

3Iar.  Now,  sir,  thought  is  free  :  I  pray  you,  bring  your 
hand  to  the  buttery-bar,  and  let  it  drink. 

Sir  And.    Wherefore,  sweetheart  ?  what's  your  metaphor  ? 

3Iar.    It's  dry,  sir. 

Sir  And.  Why,  I  think  so ;  I  am  not  such  an  ass,  but  I 
can  keep  my  hand  dry.     But  what's  your  jest? 

Mar.    A  dry  jest,  sir. 

Sir  And.    Are  you  full  of  them  ? 

Mar.  Ay,  sir ;  I  have  them  at  my  fingers'  ends :  marry, 
now  I  let  go  your  hand,  I  am  barren.  \_Exit  Maria. 

Sir.  To.  0  knight,  thou  lack'st  a  cup  of  canary :  When 
did  I  see  thee  so  put  down  ? 

Sir.  And.  Never  in  your  life,  I  think ;  unless  you  see 
canary  put  me  down :  Methinks,  sometimes  I  have  no  more 
wit  than  a  Christian,  or  an  ordinary  man  has ;  but  I  am  a 
great  eater  of  beef,  and,  I  believe,  that  does  harm  to  my  wit. 

Sir  To.    No  question. 

Sir  And.  An  I  thought  that,  I'd  forswear  it.  I'll  ride 
home  to-morrow,  Sir  Toby. 

Sir  To.    Pou7-quoy,  my  dear  knight  ? 

Sir  And.    What  is  pourquoy  f  do  or  not  do  ?     I  would  I 


202  TWELFTH    NIGHT;    OR,  [-Act  I 

had  bestowed  that  time  in  the  tongues,  that  I  have  in  fenc- 
ing, dancing,  and  bear-baiting :  0,  had  I  but  followed  the 
arts ! 

iSir  To.    Then  hadst  thou  had  an  excellent  head  of  hair. 

iSir  And.    Why,  would  that  have  mended  my  hair ! 
Si?-  To.    Past  question  ;  for  thou  seest  it  will  not  curl  by 
nature. 

Sir  And.    But  it  becomes  me  well  enough,  does't  not? 

Sir  To.  Excellent;  it  hangs  like  flax  on  a  distaff;  and 
I  hope  to  see  a  housewife  take  thee  between  her  legs  and 
spin  it  off. 

^  Sir  And.  'Faith,  I'll  home  to-morrow.  Sir  Toby :  your 
niece  will  not  be  seen ;  or,  if  she  be,  it's  four  to  one  she'll 
none  of  me :  the  count  himself,  here  hard  by,  wooes  her. 

Sir  To.  She'll  none  o'  the  count ;  she'll  not  match  above 
her  degree,  neither  in  estate,  years,  nor  wit ;  I  have  heard 
her  swear  it.     Tut,  there's  life  in't,  man. 

Sir  And.  I'll  stay  a  month  longer.  I  am  a  fellow  o'  the 
strangest  mind  i'  the  world ;  I  delight  in  masques  and  revels 
sometimes  altogether. 

Sir  To.    Art  thou  good  at  these  kickshaws,  knight  ? 

Sir  And.  As  any  man  in  Illyria,  whatsoever  he  be,  under 
the  degree  of  my  betters ;  and  yet  I  will  not  compare  with 
an  old  man. 

Sir  To.    What  is  thy  excellence  in  a  galliard,  knight  ? 

Sir  And.    Faith,  I  can  cut  a  caper. 

Sir  To.    And  I  can  cut  the  mutton  to't. 

Sir  And.  And,  I  think,  I  have  the  back-trick,  simply  as 
strong  as  any  man  in  Illyria. 

Sir  To.  Wherefore  are  these  things  hid  ?  wherefore  have 
these  gifts  a  curtain  before  them?  are  they  like  to  take 
dust,  like  mistress  Mall's  picture  ?  why  dost  thou  not  go  to 
church  in  a  galliard,  and  come  home  in  a  coranto  ?  My  very- 
walk  should  be  a  jig ;  I  would  not  so  much  as  make  water, 
but  in  a  sink-a-pace.  What  dost  thou  mean  ?  is  it  a  world 
to  hide  virtues  in  ?  I  did  think,  by  the  excellent  con- 
stitution of  thy  leg,  it  was  formed  under  the  star  of  a 
galliard. 

Sir  And.  Ay,  'tis  strong,  and  it  does  indifferent  well  in 
a  flame-colored  stock.     Shall  we  set  about  some  revels  ? 

Sir  To.  What  shall  we  do  else?  were  we  not  born  under 
Taurus  ? 

Sir  And.    Taurus  ?  that's  sides  and  heart. 

Sir  To.  No,  sir ;  it  is  legs  and  thighs.  Let  me  see  thee 
caper ;  ha  !  higher  •  ha,  ha  !  —  excellent ! 

[^JExeunt. 


Act  I.]  WHAT    YOU   WILL.  203 

SCENE  IV.     A  Boom  in  the  Duke's  Palace. 
E7iter  Valentine,  and  Viola  in  moMS  attire. 

Val.  If  the  duke  continue  these  favors  towards  you, 
Cesario,  you  are  like  to  be  much  advanced ;  he  hath  known 
you  but  three  days,  and  ah-eady  you  are  no  stranger. 

Vio.  You  either  fear  his  humor,  or  my  negligence,  that 
you  call  in  question  the  continuance  of  his  love  :  Is  he  incon- 
stant, sir,  in  his  favors  ? 

Val.   No,  believe  me. 

Enter  Duke,  Curio,  and  Attendants. 

Vio.    I  thank  you.  —  Here  comes  the  count. 

Duke     Who  saw  Cesario,  ho  ? 

Vio.    On  your  attendance,  my  lord :   here. 

Duke.    Stand  you  awhile  aloof.  —  Cesario, 
Thou  knowest  no  less  but  all ;   I  have  unclasped 
To  thee  the  book  even  of  my  secret  soul : 
Therefore,  good  youth,  address  thy  gait  unto  her; 
Be  not  denied  access,  stand  at  her  doors. 
And  tell  them,  there  thy  fixed  foot  shall  grow, 
Till  thou  have  audience. 

Vio.  Sure,  my  noble  lord, 

If  she  be  so  abandoned  to  her  sorrow 
As  it  is  spoke,  she  never  will  admit  me. 

Duke.    Be  clamorous,  and  leap  all  civil  bounds, 
Rather  than  make  unprofited  return. 

Vio.    Say,  I  do  speak  with  her,  my  lord ;  what  then  If 

Duke.    0,  then  unfold  the  passion  of  my  love, 
Surprise  her  with  discourse  of  my  dear  faith: 
It  shall  become  thee  well  to  act  my  woes ; 
She  will  attend  it  better  in  thy  youth. 
Than  in  a  nuncio  of  more  grave  aspect. 

Vio.    I  think  not  so,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Dear  lad,  believe  it; 

For  they  shall  yet  belie  thy  happy  years 
That  say,  thou  art  a  man :   Diana's  lip 
Is  not  more  smooth  and  rubious ;   thy  small  pipe 
Is  as  the  maiden's  organ,  shrill   and  sound, 
And  all  is  semblative  a  woman's  part, 
I  know  thy  constellation  is  right  apt 
For  this  affair :  —  Some  four  or  five  attend  him ; 
All,  if  you  will ;   for  I  myself  am  best. 
When  least  in  company:  —  Prosper  well  in  this, 
And  thou  shalt  live  as  freely  as  thy  lord, 
To  call  his  fortunes  thine. 


204  TWELFTH    NIGHT;    OR,  [Act  I 

Vic.  I'll  do  my  best 

To  woo   your  lady :  yet  [asu/f]  a  barful  strife  ! 
Whoe'er  I  woo,  myself  would  be  his  wife.  [^Exeunt, 

SCENE  V.     A  Room  in  Olivia's  House. 
Enter  Maria  and  Clown. 

Mar.  Nay,  either  tell  me  where  thou  hast  been,  or  I  will 
not  open  my  lips  so  wide  as  a  bristle  may  enter,  in  way  of 
thy  excuse :  my  lady  will  hang  thee  for  thy  absence. 

Olo.  Let  her  hang  me :  he  that  is  well  hanged  in  this 
world  needs  to  fear  no  colors. 

3Iar.    Make  that  good. 

Clo.    He  shall  see  none  to  fear. 

Mar.  A  good  lenten  answer :  I  can  tell  thee  where  that 
saying  was  born,  of,  I  fear  no  colors. 

Clo.    Where,  good  mistress  Mary  ? 

Mar.  In  the  wars ;  and  that  may  you  be  bold  to  say  in 
your  foolery. 

Clo.  Well,  God  give  them  wisdom,  that  have  it;  and 
those  that  are  fools,   let  them  use  their  talents. 

Mar.  Yet  you  will  be  hanged  for  being  so  long  absent : 
or,  to  be  turned  away,  is  not  that  as  good  as  a  hanging  to 
you  ? 

Clo.  Many  a  good  hanging  prevents  a  bad  marriage ; 
and,  for  turning  away,  let  summer  bear  it  out. 

3Iar.    You  are  resolute  then  ? 

Clo.    Not  so  neither ;  but  I  am  resolved  on  two  points. 

Mar.  That,  if  one  break,  the  other  will  hold ;  or,  if  both 
break,  your  gaskins  fall. 

Clo.  Apt,  in  good  faith  ;  very  apt !  Well,  go  thy  way : 
if  Sir  Toby  would  leave  drinking,  thou  wert  as  witty  a  apiece 
of  Eve's  flesh  as  any  in  Illyria. 

Mar.  Peace,  you  rogue ;  no  more  o'  that ;  here  comes 
my  lady  :  make  your  excuse  wisely,  you  were  best.     \Exit. 

Enter  Olivia  and  Malvolio. 

Clo.  Wit,  and't  be  thy  will,  put  me  into  good  fooling ! 
Those  wits  that  think  they  have  thee,  do  very  oft  prove  fools ; 
and  I,  that  am  sure  I  lack  thee,  may  pass  for  a  wise  man : 
For  what  says  Quinapalus  ?  Better  a  witty  fool,  than  a  fool- 
ish wit. God  bless  thee,  lady  ! 

Oil.    Take  the  fool  away. 

Olo.    Do  you  not  hear,  fellows  ?     Take  away  the  lady. 

Oli.  Go  to,  you're  a  dry  fool ;  I'll  no  more  of  you :  be- 
sides, you  grow  dishonest. 


Act  I.]  WHAT   YOU    WILL.  205 

Clo.  Two  fiults,  madonna,  that  drink  and  good  counsel 
will  amend :  for  give  the  dry  fool  drink,  then  is  the  fool  not 
dry;  bid  the  dishonest  man  mend  himself;  if  he  mend,  he 
is  no  longer  dishonest ;  if  he  cannot,  let  the  botcher  mend 
him  :  Any  thing  that's  mended,  is  but  patched  :  virtue,  that 
transgresses,  is  but  patched  with  sin  :  and  sin,  that  amends, 
is  but  patched  with  virtue :  If  that  this  simple  syllogism  will 
serve,  so  :  if  it  will  not,  what  remedy  ?  As  there  is  no  true 
cuckold  but  calamity,  so  beauty's  a  flower :  —  the  lady  bade 
take  away  the  fool ;  therefore,  I  say  again,  take  her  away. 

Oil.    Sir,  I  bade  them  take  away  you. 

Olo.  Misprision  in  the  highest  degree  !  —  Lady,  CucuUus 
non  facit  monachum  ;  that's  as  much  as  to  say,  I  wear  not 
motley  in  my  brain.  Good  madonna,  give  me  leave  to  prove 
you  a  fool. 

on.    Can  you  do  it  ? 

Clo.    Dexterously,  good  madam. 

OIL    Make  your  proof. 

Clo.  I  must  catechize  you  for  it,  madonna :  Good  my 
mouse  of  virtue,  answer  me. 

on.  Well,  sir,  for  want  of  other  idleness,  I'll  'bide  youi 
proof. 

Clo.    Good  madonna,  why  mourn'st  thou  ? 

Oli.    Good  fool,  for  my  brother's  death. 

Clo.    I  think  his  soul  is  in  hell,  madonna. 

Oli.    I  know  his  soul  is  in  heaven,  fool. 

Clo.  The  more  fool  you,  madonna,  to  mourn  for  your  bro- 
ther's soul  beinc:  in  heaven. — Take  awav  the  fool,  orentlemen. 

Oli.  What  think  you  of  this  fool,  Malvolio  ?  doth  he  not 
mend? 

Mai.  Yes ;  and  shall  do,  till  the  pangs  of  death  shake 
him:  Infirmity,  that  decays  the  wise,  doth  ever  make  the 
better  fool. 

Clo.  God  send  you,  sir,  a  speedy  infirmity,  for  the  better 
increasing  your  folly !  Sir  Toby  will  be  sworn  that  I  am 
no  fox ;  but  he  will  not  pass  his  word  for  twopence  that  you 
are  no  fool. 

Oli.    How  say  you  to  that,  Malvolio  ? 

3Ial.  I  marvel  your  ladyship  takes  delight  in  such  a  bar- 
ren rascal ;  I  saw  him  put  down  the  other  day  with  an  ordi- 
nary fool  that  has  no  more  brain  than  a  stone.  Look  you 
now,  he's  out  of  his  guard  already  :  unless  you  laugh  and 
minister  occasion  to  him,  he  is  gagged.  I  protest  I  take 
these  wise  men,  that  crow  so  at  these  set  of  kind  fools,  no 
better  than  the  fools'  zanies. 

Oli.    0,  you  are  sick  of  self-love,  Malvolio,  and  taste  with 

S 


206  TWELFTH    NIGHT;    OR,  [Act  I. 

a  distempered  appetite.  To  be  generous,  guiltless,  and  of 
free  disposition,  is  to  take  those  things  for  bird-bolts,  that 
you  deem  cannon-bullets  :  There  is  no  slander  in  an  allowed 
fool,  though  he  do  nothing  but  rail;  nor  no  railing  in  a 
known  discreet  man,  though  he  do  nothing  but  reprove. 

Oh.  Now  Mercury  endue  thee  with  leasing,  for  thou 
epeakest  well  of  fools ! 

Re-enter  Maria. 

Mar.  Madam,  there  is  at  the  gate  a  young  gentleman, 
much  desires  to  speak  with  you. 

Oli.    From  the  Count  Orsino,  is  it  ? 

Mar.  I  know  not,  madam ;  'tis  a  fair  young  man,  and 
"well  attended. 

Oli.    Who  of  my  people  hold  him  in  delay? 

Mar.    Sir  Toby,  madam,  your  kinsman. 

Oli.  Fetch  him  off,  I  pray  you ;  he  speaks  nothing  but 
madman  :  Fie  on  him  !  [Exit  Maria.]  Go  you,  Malvolio ; 
if  it  be  a  suit  from  the  count,  I  am  sick,  or  not  at  home : 
what  you  will  to  dismiss  it.  [Exit  Malvolio.]  Now  you 
see,  sir,  how  your  fooling  grows  old,  and  people  dislike  it. 

Olo.  Thou  hast  spoke  for  us,  madonna,  as  if  thy  eldest  son 
should  be  a  fool :  whose  skull  Jove  cram  with  brains ;  for 
here  he  comes,  one  of  thy  kin,  has  a  most  weak  pia  mater. 

Enter  SiR  Toby  Belch. 

Oli.  By  mine  honor,  half  drunk! — What  is  he  at  the 
gate,  cousin  ? 

iSir  To.    A  gentleman. 

Oli.    A  gentleman  !   what  gentleman  ? 

Sir  To.  'Tis  a  gentleman  here — A  plague  o'  these  pickle- 
herrings  !  —  How  now,  sot  ? 

Olo.    Good  Sir  Toby, 

Oli.  Cousin,  cousin,  how  have  you  come  so  early  6y  this 
lethargy  ? 

Sir  To.  Lechery  !  I  defy  lechery :  There's  one  at  the  gate. 

Oli.    Ay,  marry ;    what  is  he  ? 

Sir  To.  Let  him  be  the  devil,  an  he  will,  I  care  not :  give 
me  faith,  say  I.     Well,  it's  all  one.  [Exit. 

Oli.    What's  a  drunken  man  like,  fool? 

Olo.  Like  a  drowned  man,  a  fool,  and  a  madman :  one 
draught  above  heat  makes  him  a  fool ;  the  second  mads 
him ;   and  a  third  drowns  him. 

Oli.  Go  thou  and  seek  the  coroner,  and  let  him  sit  o'  my 
coz ;  for  he's  in  the  third  doer-'  .f  drink;  he's  di'owned; 
go,  look  after  him. 


ActL]  what   you   will.  207 

do.  He  is  but  mad  yet,  madonna  ;  and  the  fool  shall  look 
to  the  madman.  [Exit  Clown. 

Re-enter  Malvolio. 

Mai.  Madam,  yond'  young  fellow  swears  he  will  speak  to 
you.  I  told  him  you  were  sick  ;  he  takes  on  him  to  under- 
stand so  much,  and  therefore  comes  to  speak  with  you :  1 
told  him  you  were  asleep  ;  he  seems  to  have  a  foreknowledge 
of  that  too,  and  therefore  comes  to  speak  with  you.  What 
is  to  be  said  to  him,  lady  ?  he's  fortified  against  any  denial. 

OIL    Tell  him,  he  shall  not  speak  with  me. 

Mai.  He  has  been  told  so :  and  he  says,  he'll  stand  at 
your  door  like  a  sheriff's  post,  and  be  the  supporter  of  a 
bench,  but  he'll  speak  with  you. 

Oli.    What  kind  of  man  is  he  ? 

Mai.    Why,  of  man  kind. 

Oli.    What  manner  of  man  ? 

Mai.  Of  very  ill  manner ;  he'll  speak  with  you,  will  you 
or  no. 

Oli.    Of  what  personage  and  years  is  he  ? 

Mai.  Not  yet  old  enough  for  a  man,  nor  young  enough 
for  a  boy ;  as  a  squash  is  before  'tis  a  peascod,  or  a  codling 
when  'tis  almost  an  apple  :  'tis  with  him  e'en  standing  water, 
between  boy  and  man.  He  is  very  well  favored,  and  he 
speaks  very  shrewishly ;  one  would  think,  his  mother's  milk 
were  scarce  out  of  him. 

Oli.    Let  him  approach  :  call  in  my  gentlewoman. 

Mai.    Gentlewoman,  my  lady  calls.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  Maria. 

Oli.    Give    me   my  veil ;    come,  throw  it  o'er  my  face 
We'll  once  more  hear  Orsino's  embassy. 

Enter  Viola. 

Vio.    The  honorable  lady  of  the  house,  which  is  she  ? 

Oli.    Speak  to  me ;  I  shall  answer  for  her :  Your  will  ? 

Vio.  Most  radiant,  exquisite,  and  unmatchable  beauty, 
—  I  pray  you,  tell  me,  if  this  be  the  lady  of  the  house,  for 
I  never  saw  her :  I  would  be  loath  to  cast  away  my  speech ; 
for,  besides  that  it  is  excellently  well  penned,  I  have  taken 
great  pains  to  con  it.  Good  beauties,  let  me  sustain  no 
scorn ;  I  am  very  comptible,  even  to  the  least  sinister 
usage. 

Oli.    Whence  come  you,  sir? 

Vio.  I  can  say  little  more  than  I  have  studied,  and  that 
question's  out  of  my  part.    Good  gentle  one,  give  me  modest 


LOS  TWELFTH   NIGHT;    OR,  [Act  I. 

assurance,  if  you  be  the  lady  of  the  house,  that  I  may  pro- 
ceed in  my  speech. 

OU.    Are  you  a  comedian  ? 

Vio.  No,  my  profound  heart :  and  yet,  by  the  very  fangs 
of  malice,  I  swear,  I  am  not  that  I  play.  Are  you  the  lady 
of  the  house  ? 

Oli.    If  I  do  not  usurp  myself,  I  am. 

Vio.  Most  certain,  if  you  are  she,  you  do  usurp  yourself; 
for  what  is  yours  to  bestow,  is  not  yours  to  reserve.  But 
this  is  from  my  commission  :  I  will  on  with  my  speech  in 
your  praise,  and  then  show  you  the  heart  of  my  message. 

OIL  Come  to  what  is  important  in't :  I  forgive  you  the 
praise. 

Vio.    Alas,  I  took  great  pains  to  study  it,  and  'tis  poetical. 

Oli.  It  is  the  more  like  to  be  feigned  ;  I  pray  you,  keep 
it  in.  I  heard  you  w(;re  saucy  at  my  gates ;  and  allowed 
your  approach,  rather  to  wonder  at  you  than  to  hear  you. 
If  you  be  not  mad,  be  gone ;  if  you  have  reason,  be  brief: 
'tis  not  that  time  of  moon  with  me,  to  make  one  in  so  skip- 
ping a  dialogue. 

Mar.    Will  you  hoist  sail,  sir  ?  here  lies  your  way. 

Vio.  No,  good  swabber  :  I  am  to  hull  here  a  little  longer. 
—  Some  mollification  for  your  giant,  sweet  lady. 

OU.    Tell  me  your  mind. 
'  Vio.    I  am  a  messenger. 

Oli.  Sure,  you  have  some  hideous  matter  to  deliver,  when 
the  courtesy  of  it  is  so  fearful.     Speak  your  office. 

Vio.  It  alone  concerns  your  ear.  I  bring  no  overture 
of  war,  no  taxation  of  homage  ;  I  hold  the  olive  in  my  hand : 
my  words  are  as  full  of  peace  as  matter. 

Oli.  Yet  you  began  rudely.  What  are  you  ?  what  would 
you?_ 

Vio.  The  rudeness,  that  hath  appeared  in  me,  have  I 
learned  from  my  entertainment.  What  I  am,  and  what  I 
would,  are  as  secret  as  maidenhead  :  to  your  ears,  divinity ; 
to  any  other's,  profanation. 

Oli.  Give  us  the  place  alone  ;  we  will  hear  this  divinity. 
[Exit  Maria.]     Now,  sir,  what  is  your  text  ? 

Vio.    Most  sweet  lady, 

Oli.  A  comfortable  doctrine,  and  much  may  be  said  of  it. 
Where  lies  your  text  ? 

Vio.    In  Orsino's  bosom. 

Oli.    In  his  bosom  ?  In  what  chapter  of  his  bosom  ? 

Vio.    To  answer  by  the  method,  in  the  first  of  his  heart. 

OU.  0,  I  have  read  it ;  it  is  heresy.  Have  you  no  more 
to  say  ? 


Act  I.]  WHAT    YOU    WILL.  209 

Vio.    Good  madam,  let  me  see  your  face. 

on.  Have  you  any  commission  from  your  lord  to  negotiate 
with  my  face  ?  you  are  now  out  of  your  text :  but  we  will 
draw  the  curtain,  and  show  you  the  picture.  Look  you,  sir, 
such  a  one  as  I  was,  this  presents:  —  Is't  not  well  done' 

[  Unveiling, 

Vio.    Excellently  done,  if  God  did  all. 

Oil.    'Tis  in  grain,  sir  ;  'twill  endure  wind  and  weather. 

Vio.    'Tis  beauty  truly  blent,  whose  red  and  white 
Nature's  own  sweet  and  cunning  hand  laid  on : 
Lady,  you  are  the  cruel'st  she  alive. 
If  you  will  lead  these  graces  to  the  grave, 
And  leave  the  world  no  copy. 

Oli.  0,  sir,  I  will  not  be  so  hard-hearted ;  I  will  give  out 
divers  schedules  of  my  beauty :  It  shall  be  inventoried ;  and 
every  particle  and  utensil  labelled  to  my  will :  as,  item,  two 
lips  indifferent  red ;  item,  two  gray  eyes,  with  lids  to  them ; 
item,  one  neck,  one  chin,  and  so  forth.  Were  you  sent 
hither  to  'praise  me  ? 

Vio.    I  see  you  what  you  are :  you  are  too  proud ; 
But,  if  you  were  the  devil,  you  are  fair. 
My  lord  and  master  loves  you;    0,  such  love 
Could  be  but  recompensed,  though  you  were  crowned 
The  nonpareil  of  beauty ! 

Oli.  How  does  he  love  me  ? 

Vio.    With  adorations,  with  fertile  tears. 
With  groans  that  thunder  love,  with  sighs  of  fire. 

Oli.    Your  lord  does  know  my  mind ;  I  cannot  love  him 
Yet  I  suppose  him  virtuous,  know  him  noble, 
Of  great  estate,  of  fresh  and  stainless  youth ; 
In  voices  well  divulged,  free,  learned,  and  valiant, 
And,  in  dimension,  and  the  shape  of  nature, 
A  gracious  person ;  but  yet  I  cannot  love  him : 
He  might  have  took  his  answer  long  ago. 

Vio.    If  I  did  love  you  in  my  master's  flame, 
With  such  a  suffering,  such  a  deadly  life, 
In  your  denial  I  would  find  no  sense ; 
I  would  not  understand  it. 

Oli.  Why,  what  would  you? 

Vio.    Make  me  a  willow  cabin  at  your  gate, 
And  call  upon  my  soul  within  the  house; 
Write  loyal  cantons  of  contemned  love, 
And  sing  them  loud  even  in  the  dead  of  night; 
Holla  your  name  to  the  reverberate  hills, 
And  make  the  babbling  gossip  of  the  air 
Cry  out,  Olivia !     0,  you  should  not  rest 

Vol.  L  — 14  s* 


210  TWELFTH    NIGHT;    OR,  [Act  1 

Between  the  elements  of  air  and  earth, 
But  you  should  pity  me. 

Oli.    You  might  do  much :   What  is  your  parentage  ? 

Vio.    Above  my  fortunes,  yet  my  state  is  well : 
I  am  a  gentleman. 

OIL  Get  you  to  your  lord ; 

I  cannot  love  him ;  let  him  send  no  more ; 
Unless,  perchance,  you  come  to  me  again. 
To  tell  me  how  he  takes  it.     Fare  you  well : 
I  thank  you  for  your  pains :   spend  this  for  me. 

Vio.    I  am  no  feed  post,  lady ;  keep  your  purse ; 
My  master,  not  myself,  lacks  recompense. 
Love  make  his  heart  of  flint,  that  you  shall  love; 
And  let  your  fervor,  like  my  master's,  be 
Placed  in  contempt !     Farewell,  fair  cruelty.  [Exit, 

Oli.    What  is  your  parentage  ? 
Above  my  fortunes,  yet  my  state  is  well: 
I  am  a  gentleman.  —  I'll  be  sworn  thou  art; 
Thy  tongue,  thy  face,  thy  limbs,  actions,  and  spirit, 
Do  give  tlipo  five-fold  blazon.  —  Not  too  fast :  —  soft !  soft ' 
Unless  the  master  were  the  man.  —  How  now  ? 
Even  so  quickly  may  one  catch  the  plague  ? 
Methinks  I  feel  this  youth's  perfections, 
With  an  invisible  and  subtle  stealth, 
To  creep  in  at  mine  eyes.     Well,  let  it  be. — 
What,  ho,  Malvolio  !  — 

Re-enter  Malvolio. 

Mai.  Here,  madam,  at  your  service. 

Oli.    Run  after  that  same  peevish  messenger, 
The  county's  man  :  he  left  this  ring  behind  him, 
Would  I,  or  not :  tell  him,   I'll  none  of  it. 
Desire  him  not  to  flatter  with  his  lord, 
Nor  hold  him  up  with  hopes  !     I  am  not  for  him : 
If  that  the  youth  will  come  this  way  to-morrow, 
I'll  give  him  reasons  for't.     Hie  thee,  Malvolio. 

Mai.    Madam,  I  will.  [^Exit 

Oli    ]   do  I  know  not  what ;  and  fear  to  find 
Mine  eye  too  great  a  flatterer  for  my  mind. 
Fate,  show  thy  force :  ourselves  we  do  not  ewe ; 
What  is  decreed,  must  be;  and  be  this  so!  [Exit 


AotIL]  what   you  will  211 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.      The  Sea-coast. 
Enter  Antonio  and  Sebastian. 

Ant.  Will  you  stay  no  longer  ?  nor  will  jou  not  that  I 
go  with  you  ? 

Seh.  By  your  patience,  no :  my  stars  shine  darkly  over 
me :  the  malignancy  of  my  fate  might,  perhaps,  distemper 
yours ;  therefore  I  shall  crave  of  you  your  leave,  that  I 
may  bear  my  evils  alone  :  it  were  a  bad  recompense  for  your 
love,  to  lay  any  of  them  on  you. 

Ant.    Let  me  yet  know  of  you,  whither  you  are  bound. 

Seh.  No,  'sooth,  sir ;  my  determinate  voyage  is  mere  ex- 
travagancy. But  I  perceive  in  you  so  excellent  a  touch  of 
modesty,  that  you  will  not  extort  from  me  what  I  am  willing 
to  keep  in :  therefore  it  charges  me  in  manners  the  rather 
to  express  myself.  You  must  knoAv  of  me,  then,  Antonio, 
my  name  is  Sebastian,  which  I  called  Rotlorigo :  my  father 
was  that  Sebastian  of  Messaline,  whom,  I  know,  you  have 
heard  of:  he  left  behind  him  myself,  and  a  sister,  both  born 
in  an  hour.  If  the  heavens  had  been  pleased,  would  we 
had  so  ended !  but  you,  sir,  altered  that ;  for,  some  hour 
before  you  took  me  from  the  breach  of  the  sea,  was  my  sister 
drowned. 

Ant.    Alas  the  day  ! 

Seh.  A  lady,  sir,  though  it  was  said  she  much  resembled 
me,  was  yet  of  many  accounted  beautiful :  but,  though  I 
could  not,  with  such  estimable  wonder,  overfar  believe  that, 
yet  thus  far  I  will  boldly  publish  her :  she  bore  a  mind  that 
envy  could  not  but  call  fair :  she  is  drowned  already,  sir, 
with  salt  water,  though  I  seem  to  drown  her  remembrance 
again  with  more. 

Ant.    Pardon  me,  sir,  your  bad  entertainment. 

Seh.     0,  good  Antonio,  forgive  me  your  trouble. 

Ant.  If  you  will  not  murder  me  for  my  love,  let  mo  be 
your  servant. 

Seh.  If  you  will  not  undo  what  you  have  done,  that  is, 
kill  him  whom  you  have  recovered,  desire  it  not.  Fare  ye 
well  at  once  ;  my  bosom  is  full  of  kindness ;  and  I  am  yet 
so  near  the  manners  of  my  mother,  that  upon  the  least  occa- 
f»ion  more,  mine  eyes  will  tell  tales  of  me.  I  am  bound  to 
''/he  count  Orsino's  court ;   farewell.  [Exit. 

Ant.    The  gentleness  of  all  the  gods  go  with  thee ! 


212  TWELFTH    NIGHT;    OR,  [Aot  II 

I  have  many  enemies  in  Orsino's  court, 

Else  would  I  very  shortly  see  thee  there : 

But,  come  what  may,  I  do  adore  thee  so, 

That  danger  shall  seem  sport,  and  I  will  go.  [^.Exit. 

SCENE  II.     A  Street. 
Uiiter  Viola  ;   Malvolio  following. 

3Ial.  Were  not  you  even  now  with  the  countess  Olivia  ? 

Vio.  Even  now,  sir ;  on  a  moderate  pace  I  have  since 
arrived  but  hither. 

Mai.  She  returns  this  ring  to  you,  sir ;  you  might  have 
saved  me  my  pains,  to  have  taken  it  away  yourself.  She 
adds  moreover,  that  you  should  put  your  lord  into  a  desperatie 
assurance  she  will  none  of  him  :  And  one  thing  more ;  that 
you  be  never  so  hardy  to  come  again  in  his  affairs,  unless  it 
be  to  report  your  lord's  taking  of  this.     Receive  it  so. 

Vio.    She  took  the  ring  of  me  !  —  I'll  none  of  it. 

Mai.  Come,  sir,  you  peevishly  threw  it  to  her ;  and  her 
will  is,  it  should  be  so  returned  :  if  it  be  worth  stooping  for, 
there  it  lies  in  yoHr  eye ;  if  not,  be  it  his  that  finds  it.    \_UxiL 

Vio.   I  left  no  ring  with  her :  What  means  this  lady  ? 
Fortune  forbid  my  outside  have  not  charmed  her ! 
She  made  good  view  of  me ;  indeed  so  much. 
That,  sure,  methought  her  eyes  had  lost  her  tongue, 
For  she  did  speak  in  starts  distractedly. 
She  loves  me,  sure ;   the  cunning  of  her  passion 
Invites  me  in  this  churlish  messenger. 
None  of  my  lord's  ring !  why,  he  sent  her  none. 
I  am  the  man.  —  If  it  be  so,  (as  'tis,) 
Poor  lady,  she  were  better  love  a  dream. 
Disguise,  I  see,  thou  art  a  wickedness. 
Wherein  the  pregnant  enemy  does  much. 
How  easy  is  it  for  the  proper-false 
In  woman's  waxen  hearts  to  set  their  forms ! 
Alas,  our  frailty  is  the  cause,  not  we ; 
For  such  as  we  are  made  of,  such  we  be. 
How  will  this  fadge  ?     My  master  loves  her  dearly  ^ 
And  I,  poor  monster,  fond  as  much  on  him; 
And  she,  mistaken,  seems  to  dote  on  me : 
What  will  become  of  this  ?     As  I  am  man, 
My  state  is  desperate  for  my  master's  love ; 
As  I  am  woman,  now  alas  the  day  ! 
What  thriftless  sighs  shall  poor  Olivia  breathe  ? 
0  time,  thou  must  untangle  this,  not  I ; 
It  is  too  hard  a  knot  for  me  to  untie.  [J5u'f 


Act  II.]  WHAT    YOU    WILL.  213 

SCENE  III.      A  Boom  in  Olivia's  Bouse. 
Enter  Sm  Toby  Belch  and  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek. 

Sir  To.^  Approach,  Sir  Andrew:  not  to  be  abed  after 
midnight,  is  to  be  up  betimes ;  and  dilueulo  surgere,  thou 
know'st, 

Sir  And.  Naj,  by  my  troth,  I  know  not :  but  I  know  to 
be  up  late,  is  to  be  up  late. 

Sir  To.  A  false  conclusion  ;  I  hate  it  as  an  unfilled  can  : 
To  be  up  after  midnight,  and  to  go  to  bed  then,  is  eai^ly ;  so 
that  to  go  to  bed  after  midnight,  is  to  go  to  bed  betimes. 
Do  not  our  lives  consist  of  the  four  elements? 

Sir  And.  'Faith,  so  they  say ;  but,  I  think,  it  rather 
consists  of  eating  and  drinking. 

Sir  To.  Thou  art  a  scholar ;  let  us  therefore  eat  and 
drink.  —  Marian,  I  say,  a  stoop  of  wine ! 

Enter  Clown. 

Sir  And.    Here  comes  the  fool,  i'faith. 

Clo.  How  now,  my  hearts  ?  Did  you  never  see  the  pic- 
ture of  we  three  ? 

Sir  To.    Welcome,  ass ;  now  let's  have  a  catch. 

Sir  And.  By  my  troth,  the  fool  has  an  excellent  breast. 
I  had  rather  than  forty  shillings  I  had  such  a  leg,  and  so 
sweet  a  breath  to  sing,  as  the  fool  has.  In  sooth,  thou  wast 
in  very  gracious  fooling  last  night,  when  thou  spokest  of 
Pigrogromitus,  of  the  Vapians  passing  the  equinoctial  of 
Queubus  ;  'twas  very  good,  i'faith.  I  sent  the  sixpence  for 
thy  leman  :  Hadst  it  ? 

Clo.  I  did  impeticos  thy  gratillity ;  for  Malvolio's  nose 
is  no  whipstock :  My  lady  has  a  white  hand,  and  the  Myr- 
midons are  no  bottle-ale  houses. 

Sir  And.  Excellent !  Why,  this  is  the  best  fooling,  when 
all  is  done.     Now  a  song. 

Sir  To.  Come  on ;  there  is  sixpence  for  you ;  let's  have 
a  song. 

Sir  And.  There's  a  testril  of  me  too :  if  one  knight 
give  a 

Clo.    Would  you  have  a  love-song,  or  a  song  of  good  life  ? 

Sir  To.    A  love-song,  a  love-song. 

Sir  And.    Ay,  ay ;  I  care  not  for  good  life. 

« 

SONG. 

Clo.    0  mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming  ? 
0,  stay  and  hear ;  your  true  love's  coming , 


214  TWELFTH   NIGHT;    OR  [Act  II 

That  can  sing  both  high  and  low: 
Trip  no  farther,  pretty  sweeting  ; 
Journeys  end  in  lovers    meeting, 

Every  wise  mans  so7i  doth  know. 

Sir  And.    Excellent  good,  i' faith  ! 
Sir  To,    Good,  good. 

Clo.     WJiat  is  love  ?  'tis  not  hereafter ; 

Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter ; 

WJiat's  to  come  is  still  unsure: 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty ; 
Then  come  kiss  me,  sweet-and-tweyity, 

Youth's  a  staff  ivill  not  endure. 

Sir  And.    A  mellifluous  voice,  as  I  am  true  knight. 

Sir  To.    A  contagious  breath. 

Sir  And.    Very  sweet  and  contagious,  i'faith. 

Sir  To.  To  hear  by  the  nose,  it  is  dulcet  in  contagion. 
But  shall  we  make  the  welkin  dance  indeed  ?  Shall  we  rouse 
the  night-owl  in  a  catch,  that  wdll  draw  three  souls  out  of 
one  weaver  ?  shall  we  do  that  ? 

Sir  And.    An  you  love  me,  let's  do't :  I  am  dog  at  a  catch. 

Clo.    By'r  lady,  sir,  and  some  dogs  will  catch  well. 

Sir  And.    Most  certain  :  let  our  catch  be,  Thou  knave. 

Clo.  Hold  thy  peace,  thou  knave,  knight  ?  I  shall  be  con- 
strained in't,  to  call  thee  knave,  knight. 

Sir  And.  'Tis  not  the  first  time  I  have  constrained  one 
to  call  me  knave.     Begin,  fool ;  it  begins,  Sold  thy  peace. 

Clo.    I  shall  never  begin,  if  I  hold  my  peace. 

Sir  And.    Good,  i'faith  !  Come,  begin. 

\_They  sing  a  catch. 
Enter  Maria. 

Mar.  What  a  caterwauling  do  you  keep  here  !  If  my 
lady  have  not  called  up  her  steward.,  Malvolio,  and  bid  him 
turn  you  out  of  doors,  never  trust  me. 

Sir  To.  My  lady's  a  Catalan,  we  are  politicians ;  IMalvolio's 
a  Peg-a-Ramsey,  and  Three  merry  men  we  he.  Am  not  I 
consanguineous?  am  I  not  of  her  blood?  Tilley-valley, 
lady  !      There  divelt  a  man  in  Babylon,  lady,  lady  ! 

\_Singing, 

Clo.    Beshrew  me,  the  knight's  in  admirable  fooling. 

Sir  And.  Ay,  he  does  well  enough,  if  he  be  disposed, 
and  so  do  I  too ;  he  does  it  with  a  better  grace,  but  I  do  it 
more  natural. 

Sir  To.    0  the  twelfth  day  of  December, —      [Singing. 

Mar.    For  the  love  o'  God,  peace. 


AcTiL]  WHAT    YOU    WILL.  215 

Enter  Malvolio. 

3Ial.  My  masters,  are  you  mad  ?  or  what  i  re  you  ?  Have 
you  no  wit,  raanners,  nor  honesty,  hut  to  gabble  like  tinkers 
at  this  time  of  night  ?  Do  you  make  an  alehouse  of  my 
lady's  house,  that  ye  squeak  out  your  coziers'  catches 
without  any  mitigation  or  remorse  of  voice  ?  Is  there  no 
respect  of  place,  persons,  nor  time,  in  you  ? 

Sir  To.    We  did  keep  time,  sir,  in  our  catches.     Sneck  up ; 

Mai.  Sir  Toby,  I  must  be  round  with  you.  My  lady  bade 
me  tell  you,  that  though  she  harbors  you  as  her  kinsman, 
she's  nothing  allied  to  your  disorders.  If  you  can  separate 
yourself  from  your  misdemeanors,  you  are  welcome  to  the 
house ;  if  not,  an  it  would  please  you  to  take  leave  of  her, 
she  is  very  willing  to  bid  you  farewell. 

Sir  To.   Fareivell,  dear  heart,  since  I  must  needs  he  gone 

Mar.    Nay,  good  Sir  Toby. 

Clo.    His  eyes  do  show  his  days  are  almost  done. 

Mai.    Is't  even  so? 

Sir  To.    But  I  will  never  die. 

Clo.    Sir  Toby,  there  you  lie. 

Mai.   This  is  much  credit  to  you. 

Sir  To.    Shall  I  hid  him  go  ?  [Singing. 

Clo.    WJiat  an  if  you  do  9 

Sir  To.    Shall  I  bid  him  go  and  spare  not  ? 

Clo.    0  no,  no,  no,  no,  you  dare  not. 

Sir  To.  Out  o'  time?  sir,  ye  lie.  —  art  any  more  than  a 
steward  ?  Dost  thou  think,  because  thou  art  virtuous,  there 
shall  be  no  more  cakes  and  ale  ? 

Clo.  Yes,  by  Saint  Anne ;  and  ginger  shall  be  hot  i'  the 
mouth  too. 

Sir  To.  Thou'rt  i'  the  right.  —  Go,  sir,  rub  your  chain 
with  crums  : — A  stoop  of  wine,  Maria! 

Mai.  Mistress  Mary,  if  you  prized  my  lady's  favor  at 
any  thing  more  than  contempt,  you  would  not  give  means 
for  this  uncivil  rule ;  she  shall  know  of  it,  by  this  hand. 

\_Exit. 

Mar.    Go  shake  your  ears. 

Sir  And.  'Twere  as  good  a  deed  as  to  drink  when  a 
man's  a  hungry,  to  challenge  him  to  the  field ;  and  then  to 
break  promise  with  him,  and  make  a  fool  of  him. 

Sir  To.  Do't,  knight ;  I'll  write  thee  a  challenge ;  or  I'll 
deliver  thy  indignation  to  him  by  word  of  mouth. 

Mar.  Sweet  Sir  Toby,  be  patient  for  to-night ;  since  the 
youth  of  the  count's  was  to-day  with  my  lady,  she  is  much 
out  of  quiet.     For  monsieur  Malvolio,  let  me  alone  with 


216  TWELFTH    NIGHT;    OR,  [Act  II. 

him :  if  I  do  not  gull  him  iato  a  nay-word,  and  make  him 
a  common  recreation,  do  not  think  I  have  wit  enough  to 
lie  straight  in  my  bed:  I  know  I  can  do  it. 

iSir  To.  Possess  us,  possess  us ;  tell  us  something  of  him. 
Mar.    Marry,  sir,  sometimes  he  is  a  kind  of  Puritan. 

Sir  And.    0,  if  I  thought  that,  I'd  heat  him  like  a  dog. 

Sir  To.  What,  for  being  a  Puritan  ?  thy  exquisite  reason, 
dear  knight? 

Sir  And.  I  have  no  exquisite  reason  for't,  but  I  have 
reason  good  enough. 

3Iar.  The  devil  a  Puritan  that  he  is,  or  any  thing  con- 
stantly but  a  time  pleaser;  an  aifectioned  ass,  that  cons 
state  without  book,  and  utters  it  by  great  swaths :  the  best 
persuaded  of  himself,  so  crammed,  as  he  thinks,  with  excel- 
lences, that  it  is  his  ground  of  faith,  that  all,  that  look  on 
him,  love  him ;  and  on  that  vice  in  him  will  my  revenge 
find  notable  cause  to  work. 

Sir  To.    What  ^ilt  thou  do? 

Mar.  I  will  drop  in  his  way  some  obscure  epistles  of  love ; 
wherein,  by  the  color  of  his  beard,  the  shape  of  his  leg, 
the  manner  of  his  gait,  the  expressure  of  his  eye,  forehead, 
and  complexion,  he  shall  find  himself  most  feelingly  per- 
sonated :  I  can  write  very  like  my  lady,  your  niece ;  on 
a  forgotten  matter  we  can  hardly  make  distinction  of  our 
hands. 

Sir  To.    Excellent !  I  smell  a  device. 

Sir  Arid.    I  have't  in  my  nose  too. 

Sir  To.  He  shall  think,  by  the  letters  that  thou  wilt  drop, 
that  they  come  from  my  niece,  and  that  she  is  in  love  with 
him. 

Mar.    My  purpose  is,  indeed,  a  horse  of  that  color. 

Sir  And.    And  your  horse  now  would  make  him  an  ass. 

Mar.    Ass,  I  doubt  not. 

Sir  And.    0,  'twill  be  admirable. 

Mar.  Sport  royal,  I  warrant  you :  I  know,  my  physic 
will  work  with  him.  I  will  plant  you  two,  and  let  the  fool 
make  a  third,  where  he  shall  find  the  letter ;  observe  his 
construction  of  it.  For  this  night,  to  bed,  and  dream  on 
the  event.     Farewell.  [IJxit. 

Sir  To.    Good  night,  Penthesilea. 

Sir  Atid.    Before  me,  she's  a  good  wench. 

Sir  To.  She's  a  beagle,  true  bred,  and  one  that  adores 
me  :  What  o'  that  ? 

Sir  And.    I  was  adored  once,  too. 

Sir  To.,  Let's  to  bed,  knight. — Thou  hadst  need  send  for 
more  money. 


fAcTll.  WHAT   YOU    WILL.  217 

Sir  And.    If  I  cannot  recover  your  niece,  ]   am  a  foul 
way  out. 

Sir  To.    Send  for  money,  knight ;  if  thou  hast  her  not 
i'  the  end,  call  me  Cut. 

Sir  And.  If  I  do  not,  never  trust  me,  take  it  how  you  will. 

Sir  To.    Come,  come;  I'll  go  burn  some  sack;   'tis  too 
late  to  go  to  bed  now  :  come,  knight ;  come,  knight. 

l_Uxeu7it. 

SCENE  IV.     A  Room  in  the  Duke's  Palace. 
Enter  Duke,  Viola,  Curio,  and  others. 

Duke.    Give    me    some    music :  —  Now,    good   morrow, 
friends :  — 
Now,  good  Cesario,  but  that  piece  of  song. 
That  old  and  antique  song  we  heard  last  night 
Methought,  it  did  relieve  my  passion  much, 
More  than  light  airs  and  recollected  terms. 

Of  these  most  brisk  and  giddy-paced  times : 

Come,  but  one  verse. 

Cur.    He  is  not  here,  so  please  your  lordship,  that  should 
sing  it. 

Duke.    Who  was  it  ? 

Cur.    Feste,  the  jester,  my  lord;  a  fool,  that  the  lady 
Olivia's  father  took  much  delight  in :  he  is  about  the  house. 

Duke.    Seek  him  out,  and  play  the  tune  the  while. 

[^Exit  Curio.  —  Music. 
Come  hither,  boy :  If  ever  thou  shalt  .'ove. 
In  the  sweet  pangs  of  it,  remember  me ; 
For  such  as  I  am,  all  true  lovers  are ; 
LTnstaid  and  skittish  in  all  motions  else. 
Save  in  the  constant  image  of  the  creature 
That  is  beloved.  —  How  dost  thou  like  this  tune  ? 

Vio.    It  gives  a  very  echo  to  the  seat 
Where  Love  is  throned. 

Duke.  Thou  dost  speak  masterly : 

My  life  upon't,  young  though  thou  art,  thine  eye 
Hath  stayed  upon  some  favor  that  it  lover ; 
tiath  it  not,  boy  ? 

Vio.  A  little,  by  your  favor. 

Duke.    What  kind  of  woman  is't  ? 

Vio.  Of  your  complexion. 

Duke.    She  is  not  worth  thee,  then.    What  years,  i'faith  ? 

Vio.    About  your  years,  my  lord. 

Duke.    Too  old,  by  heaven :  Let  still  the  woman  take 


218  TWELFTH   NIGHT;    OR,  [Act  H 

An  elder  than  herself;  bo  wears  she  to  him, 
So  sways  she  level  iu  her  husband's  heart. 
For,  boy,  however  we  do  praise  ourselves. 
Our  fancies  are  more  giddy  and  unfirm, 
More  longing,  wavering,  sooner  lost  and  worn, 
Than  women's  are. 

Vio.  I  think  it  well,  my  lord. 

Duke.    Then  let  thy  love  be  younger  than  thyself, 
Or  thy  affection  cannot  hold  the  bent : 
For  women  are  as  roses ;  whose  fair  flower. 
Being  once  displayed,  doth  fall  that  very  hour. 

Vio.    And  so  they  are :  alas,  that  they  are  so ; 
To  die,  even  when  they  to  perfection  grow ! 

Re-enter  CuRiO  and  Clown. 

Duke.    0  fellow,  come,  the  song  we  had  last  night: 
Mark  it,   Cesario ;  it  is  old  and  plain : 
The  spinsters  and  the  knitters  in  the  sun, 
And  the  free  maids  that  weave  their  thread  with  bones, 
Do  use  to  chant  it ;  it  is  silly  sooth. 
And  dallies  with  the  innocence  of  love. 
Like  the  old  age. 

do.   Are  you  ready,  sir? 

Duke.    Ay ;  pr'ythee,  sing.  [Music 

SONG. 

Clo.    Come  aivay,  come  atvay,  death, 

And  in  sad  cyp^'ess  let  me  he  laid; 

Fly  away,  jiy  away,  breath; 
I  am  sialyl  by  a  fair  cruel  maid. 
My  shroud  of  white,  stuck  all  with  yew, 

0,  prepare  it; 
My  part  of  death  no  one  so  true 
Did  share  it. 
Not  a  flower,  not  a  flower  sweet, 
On  my  black  coffin  let  there  be  strown ; 

Not  a  friend,  not  a  friend  greet 
My  poor  corpse,  where  my  bones  shall  be  thrown: 
A  thousand  thousand  sighs  to  save, 

Lay  me,   0,  where 
Sad  true-love  never  find  my  grave, 
To  weep  there. 

Duke.    There's  for  thy  pains. 

Clo.    No  pains,  sir ;  I  take  pleasure  in  singing,  sir. 

Duke     I'll  pay  thy  pleasure,  then. 


Act  II.]  WHAT   YOU    WILL.  219 

Clo.  Truly,  sir,  and  pleasure  will  be  paid  one  time  or  another. 

Duke.  Give  me  now  leave  to  leave  thee. 

Clo.  Now,  the  melancholy  god  protect  thee  ;  and  the  tailor 
make  thy  doublet  of  changeable  taff'^ta,  for  thy  mind  is  a 
very  opal. — I  would  have  men  of  such  constancy  put  to  sea, 
that  their  business  might  be  every  thing,  and  their  intent 
every  where  ;  for  that's  it,  that  always  makes  a  good  voyage 
of  nothing.  —  Farewell.  [^Uxit  Clown. 

Duke.    Let  all  the  rest  give  place. 

'[JExeunt  Curio  and  Attendants. 
Once  more,  Cesario, 
Get  thee  to  yon'  same  sovereign  cruelty : 
Tell  her,  my  love,  more  noble  than  the  world, 
Prizes  not  quantity  of  dirty  lands ; 
The  parts  that  fortune  hath  bestowed  upon  her, 
Tell  her,  I  hold  as  giddily  as  fortune ; 
But  'tis  that  miracle,  and  queen  of  gems. 
That  nature  pranks  her  in,  attracts  my  soul. 

Vio.    But,  if  she  cannot  love  you,  sir  ? 

Duke.    I  cannot  be  so  answered. 

Vio.  'Sooth,  but  you  must. 

Say,  that  some  lady,  as,  perhaps,  there  is. 
Hath  for  your  love  as  great  a  pang  of  heart 
As  you  have  for  Olivia :   you  cannot  love  her ; 
You  tell  her  so :    Must  she  not  then  be  answered  ? 

Duke.    There  is  no  woman's  sides 
Can  bide  the  beating  of  so  strong  a  passion 
As  love  doth  give  my  heart :   no  woman's  heart 
So  big,  to  hold  so  much ;  they  lack  retention. 
Alas,  their  love  may  be  called  appetite, — 
No  motion  of  the  liver,  but  the  palate, — 
That  suffer  surfeit,  cloyment,  and  revolt; 
But  mine  is  all  as  hungry  as  the  sea, 
And  can  digest  as  much :  make  no  compare 
Between  that  love  a  woman  can  bear  me, 
And  that  I  owe  Olivia. 

Vio.  Ay,  but  I  know, 

Duke.    What  dost  thou  know  ? 

Vio.    Too  well  what  love  women  to  men  may  owe: 
In  faith,  they  are  as  true  of  heart  as  we. 
My  father  had  a  daughter  loved  a  man, 
As  it  might  be,  perhaps,  were  I  a  woman, 
I  should  your  lordship. 

Duke.  And  what's  her  history? 

Vio.    A  blank,  my  lord:    She  never  told  her  love, 
But  let  concealment,  like  a  worm  i'  the  bud, 


220  TWELFTH    NIGHT;    Oil,  [Act  n 

Feed  on  her  damask  cheek :   she  pined  in  thought ; 
And,  with  a  green  and  yellow  melancholy, 
She  sat  like  patience  on  a  monument. 
Smiling  at  grief.     Was  not  this  love,  indeed? 
We  men  may  say  more,  swear  more :   but,  indeed, 
Our  shows  are  more  than  will ;   for  still  we  prove 
Much  in  our  vows,  but  little  in  our  love. 

Duke.    But  died  thy  sister  of  her  love,  my  boy? 

Vio.  I  am  all  the  daughters  of  my  father's  house, 
And  all  the  brothers  too ;  —  and  yet  I  know  not :  — 
Sir,  shall  I  to  this  lady  ? 

Duke.  Ay,  that's  the  theme. 

To  her  in  haste :  give  her  this  jewel ;  say, 
My  love  can  give  no  place,  bide  no  denay.         \_ExeunL 

SCENE  V.     Olivia's  Garden. 

Unter  Sir  Toby  Belch,  Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek,  and 

Fabian. 

Sir  To.    Come  thy  ways,  signior  Fabian. 

Fab.  Nay,  I'll  come  ;  if  I  lose  a  scruple  of  this  sport,  let 
me  be  boiled  to  death  with  melancholy. 

Sir  To.  Would'st  thou  not  be  glad  to  have  the  niggardly 
rascally  sheep-biter  come  by  some  notable  shame  ? 

Fab.  I  would  exult,  man ;  you  know,  he  brought  me  out 
of  favor  with  my  lady,  about  a  bear-baiting  here. 

Sir  To.  To  anger  him,  we'll  have  the  bear  again :  and  we 
will  fool  him  black  and  blue  :  —  Shall  we  not,  Sir  Andrew  ? 

Sir  And.    An  we  do  not,  it  is  pity  of  our  lives. 

Ftiter  Maria. 

Sir  To.  Here  comes  the  little  villain:  —  How  now,  my 
nettle  of  India  ? 

3Iar.  Get  ye  all  three  into  the  box-tree :  Malvolio's 
coming  down  this  walk;  he  has  been  yonder  i'  the  sur, 
practising  behavior  to  his  own  shadow,  this  half  hour : 
observe  him,  for  the  love  of  mockery  ;  for  I  know,  this  letter 
will  make  a  contemplative  idiot  of  him.  Close,  in  the  name 
of  jesting  !  [^The  men  hide  themselves.^  Lie  thou  there; 
[throws  doivn  a  letter  ;']  for  here  comes  the  trout  that  must 
be  caught  with  tickling.  [Exit  Maria. 

Enter  Malvolio. 

Mai.  'Tis  but  fortune ;  all  is  fortune.  Maria  once  told 
me,  she  did  affect  me :  and  I  have  heard  herself  come  thus 


^CTlL]  WHAT    YOU    WILL.  221 

near,  that,  should  she  fancy,  it  should  be  one  of  my  com- 
plexion. Besides,  she  uses  me  with  a  more  exalted  respect, 
than  any  one  else  that  follows  her.    What  should  I  think  on't? 

Sir  To.    Here's  an  overweening  rogue  ! 

Fab.  0,  peace  !  Contemplation  makes  a  rare  turkey-cock 
of  him ;  how  he  jets  under  his  advanced  plumes  ! 

Sir  And.    'Slight,  I  could  so  beat  the  rogue:  — 

Sir  To.    Peace,  I  say. 

Mai.    To  be  Count  Malvolio ;  — 

Sir  To.    Ah,  rogue  ! 

Sir  And.    Pistol  him,  pistol  him. 

Sir  To.   Peace,  peace ! 

3Ial.  There  is  example  for't ;  the  lady  of  the  Strachy 
married  the  yeoman  of  the  wardrobe. 

Sir  And.    Fie  on  him,  Jezebel ! 

Fab.  0,  peace  !  now  he's  deeply  in ;  look  how  imagina- 
tion blows  him. 

3Ial.  Having  been  three  months  married  to  her,  sirting 
in  my  state, — 

Sir  To.    0,  for  a  stone  bow,  to  hit  him  in  the  eye  ! 

3fal.  Calling  my  officers  about  me,  in  my  branched  velvet 
gown ;  having  come  from  a  day  bed,  where  I  left  Olivia 
sleeping, — 

Sir  To.    Fire  and  brimstone  ! 

Fab.    0,  peace,  peace ! 

Mai.  And  then  to  have  the  humor  of  state :  and  aftei 
a  demure  travel  of  regard,  —  telling  them  I  know  my  place, 
as  I  would  they  should  do  theirs  —  to  ask  for  my  kinsman 
Toby:— 

Sir  To.    Bolts  and  shackles  ! 

Fab.    0,  peace,  peace,  peace !  now,  now. 

Mai.  Seven  of  my  people,  with  an  obedient  start,  make 
out  for  him :  I  frown  the  while ;  and,  perchance,  wind  up 
my  watch,  or  play  with  my  some  rich  jewel.  Toby  ap- 
proaches ;  court'sies  there  to  me :  — 

Sir  To.    Shall  this  fellow  live? 

Fab.  Though  our  silence  be  drawn  from  us  with  cars, 
yet  peace. 

3Ial.  I  extend  my  hand  to  him  thus,  quenching  my 
familiar  smile  with  an  austere  regard  of  control :  — 

Sir  To.  And  does  not  Toby  take  you  a  blow  o'  the  lips 
then? 

Mai.  Saying,  Cousin  Toby,  my  fortunes  having  cast  me 
\>n  your  niece,  give  me  this  prerogative  of  speech:  — 

Sir  To.    WHiat,  what? 

Mai.    You  must  amend  your  drunkenness. 


222  T\YELFTH   NIGHT;    OR,  [Act  II 

Sir  To.    Out,  scab  ! 

Fab.    Nay,  patience,  or  we  break  the  sinews  of  our  plot. 
Mai.    Besides,  you  ivaste  the  treasure  of  your  time  with 
a  foolish  Jcnight  — 

Sir  And.    That's  me,  I  warrant  you. 

Mai.    One  Sir  Andrew :  — 

Sir  And.    I  knew  'twas  I ;  for  many  do  call  me  fool. 

Mai.    What  employment  have  we  here  ? 

\_  Taking  up  the  letter. 
Fah.    Now  is  the  woodcock  near  the  gin. 
Sir  To.    0,  peace !    and  the    spirit  of  humors    intimate 
reading  aloud  to  him  ! 

3Ial.    By  my  life,  this  is  my  lady's  hand :  these  be  her 
very  Cs,  her   CTs,  and  her   T  s> ;  and  thus  makes  she  her 
great  P's.     It  is,  in  contempt  of  question,  her  hand. 
Sir  And.    Her  (7s,  her  Z7's,  and  her  ^s :  Why  that  ? 
Mai.    \_Reads.^   To  the  unknoivn  beloved,  this,  and  my 
good  ivishes :  her  very  phrases! — By  your  leave,  wax.— 
Soft ! — and  the  impressure  her  Lucrece,  with  which  she  uses 
to  seal :   'tis  my  lady :  To  whom  should  this  be  ? 
Fab.    This  wins  him,  liver  and  all. 
Mai.    [Reads.'\    Jove  knews,  I  love: 
But  who  ? 
Lips  do  not  move, 
No  raan  must  know. 
No  man  must  knoio. — What  follows  ?  the  numbers  altered  ! 
— No  man  must  knoiv;  —  If  this  should  be  tliec,  Malvolio? 
Sir  To.    Marry,  hang  thee,  brock  ! 
Mai.    I  may  command  where  I  adore : 

But  silence,  like  a  Lucrece  knife, 
With  bloodless  stroke  my  heart  doth  gore; 
M,  0,  A,  I,  doth  sway  my  life. 
Fab.    A  fustian  riddle  ! 
Sir  To.    Excellent  wench,  say  I. 

Mai.    M,  0,  A,  I,  doth  sioay  my  life. — Nay,  but  first,  let 
me  see, —  let  me  see, —  let  me  see. 

Fab.  What  a  dish  of  poison  has  she  dressed  him ! 
Sir  To.  And  with  what  wing  the  stannyel  checks  at  it ! 
Mai.  I  may  command  where  I  adore.  Why,  she  may 
command  me  ;  I  serve  her ;  she  is  my  lady.  Why,  this  is 
evident  to  any  formal  capacity.  There  is  no  obstruction  in 
this  :  —  And  the  end, — What  should  that  alphabetical  posi- 
tion portend  ?  If  I  could  make  that  resemble  something  in 
me  !  —  Softly  !  —M,  0,  A,  L— 

Sir  To.    0,  ay !  make  up  that :  —  he  is  now  %t  a  cold 
ticent. 


Act  IT.]  WHAT   YOU    WILL.  223 

Fah.  Sowter  will  crj  upon't,  for  all  this,  though  it  be 
as  rank  as  a  fox. 

Mai.   M, — Malvolio ; — 3/, — why,  that  begins  my  name. 

Fah.  Did  not  I  say,  he  would  work  it  out  ?  the  cur  is 
excellent  at  faults. 

3Ial.  31, — But  then  there  is  no  consonancy  in  the  sequel; 
that  suffers  under  probation :  A  should  follow,  but  0  does 

Fab.    And  0  shall  end,  I  hope. 

Sir  To.    Ay,  or  I'll  cudgel  him,  and  make  him  cry,  0. 

Mai.    And  then  I  comes  behind. 

Fab.  Ay,  an  you  had  any  eye  behind  you,  you  might 
see  more  detraction  at  your  heels,  than  fortunes  before  you. 

Mai.  M,  0,  A,  I; — This  simulation  is  not  as  the  former  : 
—  and  yet,  to  crush  this  a  little,  it  would  bow  to  me,  for 
every  one  of  these  letters  are  in  my  name.  Soft ;  here  fol- 
lows prose. — If  this  fall  into  thy  hand,  revolve.  In  my  stars 
I  am  above  thee  ;  hut  be  not  afraid,  of  greatJiess :  Some  are 
horn  great,  some  achieve  greatness,  and  some  have  greatness 
thrust  upon  them.  Thy  fates  open  their  hands  ;  let  thy  blood 
and  spirit  embrace  them.  And,  to  inure  thyself  to  ivhat  thou 
art  like  to  be,  cast  thy  humble  slough,  and  appear  fresh.  Be 
opposite  tvith  a  kinsmun,  surly  with  servants :  let  thy  tongue 
tang  arguments  of  state  ;  put  thyself  into  the  trick  of  singu- 
larity :  She  thus  advises  thee,  that  sighs  for  thee.  Remember 
who  commended  thy  yelloiv  stockings  ;  and  wished  to  see  thee 
ever  cross-gartered :  I  say,  remember.  Go  to ;  thou  art 
made,  if  thou  desirest  to  be  so  ;  if  not,  let  me  see  thee  a  stew- 
ard still,  the  fellow  of  servants,  and  not  ivorthy  to  touch  for- 
tune's  fingers.  Farewell.  She  that  would  alter  services  tvith 
thee, — The  fortu nate-unhappy . 

Day-light  and  champain  discovers  not  more  :  this  is  open. 
I  will  be  proud,  I  will  read  politic  authors,  I  will  baffle  Sir 
Toby,  I  Avill  Avash  off  gross  acquaintance,  I  will  be  point-de- 
vice, the  very  man.  I  do  not  now  fool  myself,  to  let  imagi- 
nation jade  me ;  for  every  reason  excites  to  this,  that  my 
lady  loves  me.  She  did  commend  my  yellow  stockings  of 
late,  she  did  praise  my  leg  being  cross-gartered  ;  and  in  this 
she  manifests  berstlf  to  my  love,  and,  with  a  kind  of  injunc- 
tion, drives  me  to  these  habits  of  her  liking.  I  thank  my 
stars,  I  am  happy.  1  will  be  strange,  stout,  in  yellow  stock- 
ings, and  cross-gartered,  even  with  the  swiftness  of  putting 
on.  Jove  and  my  stars  be  praised  !  —  Here  is  yet  a  post- 
script. Thou  canst  not  choose  but  know  who  I  am.  If  thou 
entertainest  my  love,  let  it  appear  in  thy  smiling ;  thy  smiles 
become  thee  well:  therefore  in  my  presence  still  smile,  dear 
my  swe^et,  I pr'ytliee. — Jove,  I  tliaiik  thee. — I  will  smile  ;  I 
will  do  every  thing  that  thou  wilt  have  me.  \^Exit 


224  TWELFTH    NTGHTj    OR,         [Act  III 

Fah.  I  will  not  give  my  part  of  this  sport  for  a  pension 
of  thousands  to  be  paid  from  the  Sophj. 

Sir  To.    I  could  marry  this  wench  for  this  device. 

Sir  And.    So  could  I  too. 

Sir  To.  And  ask  no  other  dowry  with  her,  but  such 
another  jest. 

Enter  Maria. 

Sir  And.    Nor  I  neither. 

Fah.    Here  comes  my  noble  gull-catcher. 

Sir  To.    Wilt  thou  set  thy  foot  o'  my  neck  ? 

Sir  And.    Or  o'  mine  either  ? 

Sir  To.  Shall  I  play  my  freedom  at  tray-trip,  and  become 
thy  bond-slave  ? 

Sir  And.    I' faith,  or  I  either  ? 

Sir  To.  Why,  thou  hast  put  him  in  such  a  dream,  that, 
when  the  image  of  it  leaves  him,  he  must  run  mad. 

Mar.    Nay,  but  say  true ;   does  it  work  upon  him  ? 

Sir  To.    Like  aqua-vitne  with  a  midAvife. 

Mar.  If  you  will  then  see  the  fruits  of  the  sport,  mark 
his  first  approach  before  my  lady :  he  will  come  to  her  in 
yellow  stockings,  and  'tis  a  color  she  abhors  ;  and  cross-gar- 
tered, a  fashion  she  detests ;  and  he  will  smile  upon  her, 
which  will  now  be  so  unsuitable  to  her  disposition,  being 
addicted  to  a  melancholy  as  she  is,  that  it  cannot  but  turn 
him  into  a  notable  contempt :  if  you  will  see  it,  follow  me. 

Sir  To.  To  the  gates  of  Tartar,  thou  most  excellent  devil 
of  wit! 

Sir  And.    I'll  make  one  too.  [Exeunt. 


ACT    III. 

SCENE  I.     Olivia's  Garden. 
Enter  Viola,  and  Clown  tvith  a  Tabor. 

Vio.  Save  thee,  friend,  and  thy  music  :  Dost  thou  live 
r>j  thy  tabor  ? 

Olo.    No,  sir,  I  live  by  the  church. 

Vio.    Art  thou  a  churchman  ? 

Clo.  No  such  matter,  sir ;  I  do  live  by  the  church  :  for  I 
do  live  at  my  house,  and  my  house  doth  stand  by  the  church. 

Vio.    So  thou  may'st  say,  the  king  lives  by  a  beggar,  if  a 


Act  III.]  WHAT   YOU   WILL.  225 

beggar  dwell  near  him ;  or,  the  church  stands  by  thy  tabor, 
if  thy  tabor  stand  by  the  church. 

Clo.  You  have  said,  sir. —  To  see  this  age  !  —  A  sentence 
is  but  a  cheveril  glove  to  a  good  \;\t ;  how  quickly  the  Avrong 
side  may  be  turned  outward  ! 

Vio.  Nay,  that's  certain  ;  they,  that  dally  nicely  with 
words,  may  quickly  make  them  wanton. 

Clo.    I  would,  therefore,  my  sister  had  had  no  name,  sir. 

Vio.    Why,  man  ? 

Clo.  Why,  sir,  her  name's  a  word  ;  and  to  dally  with  that 
word,  might  make  my  sister  wanton :  But,  indeed,  words 
are  very  rascals,  since  bonds  disgraced  them. 

Vio.    Thy  reason,  man  ? 

Clo.  Troth,  sir,  I  can  yield  you  none  without  words ; 
and  words  are  grown  so  false,  I  am  loath  to  prove  reason 
with  them. 

Vio.  I  warrant,  thou  art  a  merry  fellow,  and  carest  for 
nothing. 

Clo.  Not  so,  sir ;  I  do  care  for  something :  but  in  my 
conscience,  sir,  I  do  not  care  for  you ;  if  that  be  to  care  for 
nothing,  sir,  I  would  it  would  make  you  invisible. 

Vio.    Art  not  thou  the  lady  Olivia's  fool  ? 

Clo.  No,  indeed,  sir  ;  the  lady  Olivia  has  no  folly :  she 
will  keep  no  fool,  sir,  till  she  be  married ;  and  fools  are  as 
like  husbands,  as  pilchards  are  to  herrings ;  the  husband's 
the  bigger ;  I  am,  indeed,  not  her  fool,  but  her  corrupter  of 
words. 

Vio.    I  saw  thee  late  at  the  count  Orsino's. 

Clo.  Foolery,  sir,  does  walk  about  the  orb,  like  the  sun ; 
it  shines  every  where.  I  would  be  sorry,  sir,  but  the  fool 
should  be  as  oft  w'ith  your  master,  as  with  my  mistress :  I 
think  I  saw  your  wisdom  there. 

Vio.  Nay,  an  thou  pass  upon  me,  I'll  no  more  with  thee. 
Hold,  there's  expenses  for  thee. 

Clo.  Now  Jove,  in  his  next  commodity  of  hair,  send  thee 
a  beard  ? 

Vio.  By  my  troth,  I'll  tell  thee ;  I  am  almost  sick  for 
one  ;  though  I  would  not  have  it  grow  on  my  chin.  Is  thy 
lady  within  ? 

Clo.    Would  not  a  pair  of  these  have  bred,  sir  ? 

Vio.    Yes,  being  kept  together,  and  put  to  use. 

Clo.  I  would  play  lord  Pandarus  of  Phrygia,  sir,  to  bring 
a  Cressida  to  this  Troilus. 

Vio.    I  understand  you,  sir ;  'tis  well  begged. 

Clo.  The  matter,  I  hope,  is  not  great,  sir,  begging  but  a 
beggar ;  Cressida  was  a  beggar.     My  lady  is  within,  sir 

Vol.  I.  — 15 


226  TWELFTH   NIGHT;    OR,         [Act  LQ 

I  will  construe  to  them  whence  you  come ;  who  you  are,  and 
what  you  would,  are  out  of  my  welkin;  I  might  say,  element; 
but  the  word  is  over-worn.  [_Exit. 

Vio.    This  fellow's  wise  enough  to  play  the  fool; 
And  to  do  that  well,  craves  a  kind  of  wit : 
He  must  observe  their  mood  on  whom  he  jests, 
The  quality  of  persons,  and  the  time ; 
And,  like  the  haggard,  check  at  every  feather 
That  comes  before  his  eye.     This  is  a  practice, 
As  full  of  labor  as  a  wise  man's  art : 
For  folly,  that  he  wisely  shows,  is  fit ; 
But  wise  men,  folly-fallen,  quite  taint  their  wit. 

Enter  Sir  Toby  Belch  and  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek, 

Sir  To.    Save  you,  gentleman. 

Vio,    And  you,  sir. 

Sir  And.   Dieu  vous  garde,  monsieur. 

Vio.    Et  vous  aussi ;  voire  serviteur. 

Sir  And.    I  hope,  sir,  you  are ;  and  I  am  yours. 

Sir  To.  Will  you  encounter  the  house  ?  my  niece  is  desi- 
rous you  should  enter,  if  your  trade  be  to  her. 

Vio.  I  am  bound  to  your  niece,  sir :  I  mean,  she  is  the 
list  of  my  voyage. 

Sir  To.    Taste  your  legs,  sir,  put  them  to  motion. 

Vio.  My  legs  do  better  understand  me,  sir,  than  I  under- 
stand what  you  mean  by  bidding  me  taste  my  legs. 

Sir  To.    I  mean,  to  go,  sir,  to  enter. 

Vio.  I  will  answer  you  with  gait  and  entrance :  but  we 
are  prevented. 

E7iter  Olivia  and  Maria. 

Most  excellent  accomplished  lady,  the  heavens  rain  rtdors 
on  you ! 

Sir  And.  That  youth's  a  rare  courtier !  Main  odors  ! 
well. 

Vio.  My  matter  hath  no  voice,  lady,  but  to  your  own  most 
pregnant  and  vouchsafed  ear. 

Sir  And.  Odors,  pregnant,  and  vouchsafed: — I'll  get 
'em  all  three  ready. 

Oli.  Let  the  garden  door  be  shut,  and  leave  me  to  my 
hearing. 

[Exeunt  Sir  Toby,  Sir  Andrew,  and  Maria. 
Give  me  your  hand,  sir. 

Vio.    My  duty,  madam,  and  most  humble  service 

Oli.    What  is  your  name  ? 

Vio.    Cesario  is  your  servant's  name,  fail  princess ' 


Act  III.]  WHAT    YOU    WILL  227 

Oli.    My  servant,  sir !     'Twas  never  merry  world, 
Since  lowly  feigning  was  called  compliment ; 
You  are  servant  to  the  count  Orsino.  youth. 

Vio.    And  he  is  yours,  and  his  must  needs  be  yours ; 
Your  servant's  servant  is  your  servant,  madam. 

Oli.    For  him,  I  think  not  on  him :  for  his  thoughts, 
'Would  they  were  blanks,  rather  than  filled  with  me  ! 

Vio.    Madam,  I  come  to  whet  your  gentle  thoughts 
On  his  behalf:  — 

Oli.  0,  by  your  leave,  I  pray  you; 

I  bade  you  never  speak  again  of  him : 
But,  would  you  undertake  another  suit, 
I  had  rather  hear  you  to  solicit  that. 
Than  music  from  the  spheres. 

Vio.  Dear  lady, — 

Oli.    Give  me  leave,  'beseech  you :  I  did  send, 
After  the  last  enchantment  you  did  here, 
A  ring  in  chase  of  you ;  so  did  I  abuse 
Myself,  my  servant,  and,  I  fear  me,  yoli: 
Under  your  hard  construction  must  I  sit. 
To  force  that  on  you,  in  a  shameful  cunning, 
Which  you  knew  none  of  yours:  what  might  you  think? 
Have  you  not  set  mine  honor  at  the  stake. 
And  baited  it  with  all  the  unmuzzled  thoughts 
That  tyrannous  heart  can  think  ?     To  one  of  your  receiving 
Enough  is  shown ;  a  cyprus,  not  a  bosom, 
Hides  my  poor  heart:  so  let  me  hear  you  speak. 

Vio.    I  pity  you. 

Oli.    That's  a  degree  to  love. 

Vio.    No,  not  a  grise ;  for  'tis  a  vulgar  proof, 
That  very  oft  we  pity  enemies. 

Oli.    Why,  then,  methinks,   'tis  time  to  smile  again ; 

0  world,  how  apt  the  poor  are  to  be  proud ! 
If  one  should  be  a  prey,  how  much  the  better 
To  fall  before  the  lion,  than  the  wolf? 

\_Clock  strikes. 
The  clock  upbraids  me  with  the  waste  of  time. — 
Be  not  afraid,  good  youth,  I  will  not  have  you : 
And  yet,  when  wit  and  youth  is  come  to  harvest. 
Your  wife  is  like  to  reap  a  proper  man : 
There  lies  your  way,  due  west. 

Vio.  Then  westward-hoe: 

Grace  and  gocd  disposition  'tend  your  ladyship! 
You'll  nothing,  madam,  to  my  lord  by  me  ? 

Oli.    Stay : 

1  pr'ythee,  tell  me  what  thou  think'st  of  me. 


(i 


228  TWELFTH    Nlv>HT;    OR,        [Act  III, 

Vio.   That  jou  do  think,  you  are  not  what  you  are. 

on.    If  I  think  so,  I  think  the  same  of  you. 

Vio.    Then  think  you  right ;   I  am  not  what  I  am. 

on.    I  would  you  were  as  I  would  have  you  be ! 

Vio.   Would  it  be  better,  madam,  than  I  am, 
I  wish  it  might ;   for  now  I  am  your  fool. 

Oli.     0,  what  a  deal  of  scorn  looks  beautiful 
In  the  contempt  and  anger  of  his  lip  ! 
A  murderous  guilt  shows  not  itself  more  soon 
Than  love  that  would  seem  hid :   love's  night  is  noon. 
Cesario,  by  the  roses  of  the  spring, 
By  maidhood,  honor,  truth,  and  every  thing, 
I  love  thee  so,  that,  maugre  all  thy  pride, 
Nor  wit,  nor  reason,  can  my  passion  hide. 
Do  not  extort  thy  reasons  from  this  clause. 
For,  that  I  avoo,  thou  therefore  hast  no  cause ; 
But,  rather,  reason  thus  with  reason  fetter : 
Love  sought  is  good,  but  given  unsought  is  better. 

Vio.    By  inncfcence  I  swear,  and  by  my  youth, 
I  have  one  heart,  one  bosom,  and  one  truth. 
And  that  no  woman  has;   nor  never  none 
Shall  mistress  be  of  it,  save  I  alone. 
And  so  adieu,  good  madam ;  never  more 
Will  I  my  master's  tears  to  you  deplore. 

OH.  Yet  come  again ;  for  thou,  perhaps,  may'st  move 
That  heart,  which  now  abhors,  to  like  his  love.     [^JSxeunt. 

SCENE  II.     A  Boom  in  Olivia's  Eouse. 

Enter  Sir  Toby  Belch,  Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek,  and 

Fabian. 

Sir  And.    No,  faith,  I'll  not  stay  a  jot  longer. 

Sir  To.    Thy  reason,  dear  venom;  give  thy  reason. 

Fah.    You  must  needs  yield  your  reason,  Sir  Andrew. 

Sir  And.  Marry,  I  saw  your  niece  do  more  favors  to  the 
count's  serving  man,  than  ever  she  bestowed  upon  me ;  I 
Baw't  i'  the  orchard. 

Sir  To.  Did  she  see  thee  the  while,  old  boy  ?    Tell  me  that. 

Sir  And.    As  plain  as  I  see  you  now. 

Fah.  This  was  a  great  argument  of  love  in  her  toward  you. 

Sir  And.    'Slight !     Will  you  make  an  ass  o'  me  ? 

Fab.  I  will  prove  it  legitimate,  sir,  upon  the  oaths  of 
judgment  and  reason. 

Sir  To.  And  they  have  been  grand  jury-men,  since  before 
Noah  was  a  sailor. 


Act  III.]  WHAT    YOU    WILL  229 

Fab.  She  did  show  favor  to  the  youth  in  your  sight,  only 
to  exasperate  you,  to  awake  your  dormouse  valor,  to  put  fire 
in  your  heart,  and  brimstone  in  your  liver  :  you  should  then 
have  accosted  her ;  and  with  some  excellent  jests,  fire-new 
from  the  mint,  you  should  have  banged  the  youth  into  dumb- 
ness. This  was  looked  for  at  your  hand,  and  this  was  balked : 
the  double  gilt  of  this  opportunity  you  let  time  wash  off,  and 
you  are  now  sailed  into  the  north  of  my  lady's  opinion ; 
where  you  will  hang  like  an  icicle  on  a  Dutchman's  beard, 
unless  you  do  redeem  it  by  some  laudable  attempt,  either 
of  valor  or  policy. 

Sir  And.  And't  be  any  way,  it  must  be  with  valor ;  for 
policy  I  hate :  I  had  as  lief  be  a  Brownist  as  a  politician. 

Sir  To.  Why  then,  build  me  thy  fortunes  upon  the  basis 
of  valor.  Challenge  me  the  count's  youth  to  fight  with  him ; 
hurt  him  in  eleven  places  ;  my  niece  shall  take  note  of  it : 
and  assure  thyself,  there  is  no  love-broker  in  the  world  can 
more  prevail  in  man's  commendation  with  woman,  than 
report  of  valor. 

Fah.    There  is  no  way  but  this,  Sir  Andrew. 

Sir  And.    Will  either  of  you  bear  me  a  challenge  to  him  ? 

Sir  To.  Go,  write  it  in  a  martial  hand ;  be  curst  and 
brief;  it  is  no  matter  how  witty,  so  it  be  eloquent,  and  full 
of  invention :  taunt  him  with  the  license  of  ink :  if  thou 
tliou'st  him  some  thrice,  it  shall  not  be  amiss ;  and  as  many 
lies  as  will  lie  in  thy  sheet  of  paper,  although  the  sheet  were 
big  enough  for  the  bed  of  Ware  in  England,  set  'em  down ;  go 
about  it.  Let  there  be  gall  enough  in  thy  ink  ;  though  thou 
write  with  a  goose-pen,  no  matter :  about  it. 

Sir  And.    Where  shall  I  find  you  ? 

Sir  To.   We'll  call  thee  at  the  cubiculo :  Go. 

[Fxit  Sir  Andrew. 

Fab.    This  is  a  dear  manakin  to  you,  Sir  Toby. 

Sir  To.  I  have  been  dear  to  him,  lad  :  some  two  thousand 
strong,  or  so. 

Fab.  We  shall  have  a  rare  letter  from  him  :  but  you'll  not 
deliver  it. 

Sir  To.  Never  trust  me  then  !  And  by  all  means  stir  on 
the  youth  to  an  answer.  I  think,  oxen  and  wainropes  can- 
not hale  them  together.  For  Andrew,  if  he  were  opened, 
and  you  find  so  much  blood  in  his  liver  as  will  clog  the  foot 
of  a  flea,  I'll  eat  the  rest  of  the  anatomy. 

Fab.  And  his  opposite,  the  youth,  bears  in  hia  visage  no 
great  presage  of  cruelty. 

U 


230  TWELFTH   NIGHTj    OR,  [Act  III 

Enter  Maria. 

Sir  To.    Look,  where  the  youngest  wren  of  nine  comes. 

Mc>,r.  If  you  desh-e  the  spleen,  and  will  laugh  yourselves 
into  stitches,  follow  me :  yon'  gull  Malvolio  is  turned  hea- 
then, a  very  renegado ;  for  there  is  no  Christian,  that  meana 
to  be  saved  by  believing  rightly,  can  ever  believe  such  im- 
possible passages  of  grossness.     He's  in  yellow  stockings. 

Sir  To.    And  cross-gartered? 

Mar.  Most  villanously  ;  like  a  pedant  that  keeps  a  school 
i'  the  church.  —  I  have  dogged  him,  like  his  murderer :  He 
does  obey  every  point  of  the  letter  that  I  dropped  to  betray 
him.  He  does  smile  his  face  into  more  lines,  than  are  in 
the  new  map,  with  the  augmentation  of  the  Indies :  you  have 
not  seen  such  a  thing  as  'tis ;  I  can  hardly  forbear  hurling 
things  at  him.  I  know,  my  lady  will  strike  him ;  if  she  do, 
he'll  smile,  and  take't  for  a  great  favor. 

Sir  To.    Come,  bring  us,  bring  us  where  he  is. 


[Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.     A  Street, 
Enter  Antonio  and  Sebastian. 


Seb.    I  would  not,  by  my  will,  have  troubled  you, 
But,  since  you  make  your  pleasure  of  your  pains, 
I  will  no  further  chide  you. 

Ant.    I  could  not  stay  behind  you ;  my  desire, 
More  sharp  than  filed  steel,  did  spur  me  forth; 
And  not  all  love  to  see  jou  (though  so  much 
As  might  have  drawn  one  to  a  longer  voyage), 
But  jealousy  what  might  befall  your  travel. 
Being  skilless  in  these  parts  ;  which,  to  a  stranger,     - 
Unguided  and  unfriended,  often  prove 
Rough  and  unhospitable :  My  willing  love. 
The  rather  by  these  arguments  of  fear. 
Set  forth  in  your  pursuit. 

Seh.  My  kind  Antonio, 

I  can  no  other  answer  make,  but  thanks, 
Aiid  thanks,  and  ever  thanks.     Often  good  turns 
Are  shuffled  off  with  such  uncurrent  pay : 
But,  were  my  worth,  as  is  my  conscience,  firm, 
You  should  find  better  dealing.     What's  to  do? 
Shall  we  go  see  the  reliques  of  this  town. 

Ant.    To-morroTv,  sir;   best,  first,  go  see  your  lodging. 

Seh.    I  am  not  weary,  and  'tis  long  to  night; 
I  pray  you,  let  us  satisfy  our  eyes 


Act  III.]  WHAT   YOU    WILL.  231 

With  the  memorials,  and  the  things  of  fame, 
That  do  renown  this  city. 

Ant.  'Woukl  you'd  pardon  me; 

I  do  not  without  danger  walk  these  streets : 
Once,  in  a  sea-fight,   'gainst  the  count  his  galleys, 
I  did  some  service ;  of  such  note,  indeed, 
That,  were  I  ta'en  here,  it  would  scarce  be  answered. 

Seb.    Belike,  you  slew  great  number  of  his  people. 

Ant.    The  oifence  is  not  of  such  a  bloody  nature; 
Albeit  the  quality  of  the  time,  and  quarrel. 
Might  well  have  given  us  bloody  argument. 
It  might  have  since  been  answered  in  repaying 
What  we  took  from  them  ;  which,  for  traffic's  sake, 
Most  of  our  city  did :  only  myself  stood  out : 
For  which,  if  I  be  lapsed  in  this  place, 
I  shall  pay  dear. 

/Seb.  Do  not  then  walk  too  open. 

Ant.    It  doth  not  fit  me.     Hold,  sir,  here's  my  purse : 
In  the  south  suburbs,  at  the  Elephant, 
Is  best  to  lodge ;  I  will  bespeak  our  diet, 
Whiles  you  beguile  the  thne,  and  feed  your  knowledge, 
With  viewing  of  the  town ;  there  shall  you  have  me. 

iSeb.    Why  I  your  purse  ? 

Ant.    Haply,  your  eye  shall  light  upon  some  toy 
You  have  desire  to  purchase ;  and  your  store, 
I  think,  is  not  for  idle  markets,  sir, 

Seb.    I'll  be  your  purse-bearer,  and  leave  you  for 
An  hour. 

Ant.        To  the  Elephant. — 

Seb.  I  do  remember. 

[^Uxeunt 

SCENE  IV.     Olivia's  Garden. 
Enter  Olivia  and  Makia. 

Oli.    I  have  sent  after  him :  he  says  he'll  come : 
How  shall  I  feast  him  ?     What  bestow  on  him  ? 
For  youth  is  bought  more  oft,  than  begged,  or  borrowed. 

I  speak  too  loud, 

Where  is  Malvolio  ?  —  he  is  sad,  and  civil. 

And  suits  well  for  a  servant  with  my  fortunes;  — 

Where  is  Malvolio  ? 

Mar.    He's  coming,  madam ;  but  in  very  strange  manner. 
He  is  sure  possessed,  madam. 

Oli.    Why,  what's  the  matter  ?  does  he  rave  ? 

Mar.   Ko,  madam,  he  does  nothing  but  smile :  your  lady- 


232  TWELFTH    NIGHT;    OR,         [Act  111. 

ship  were  best  to  have  some  guard  about  you,  if  he  come; 
for  sure  the  mau  is  tainted  in  his  wits. 

Oil.    Go  call  him  hither. — I'm  as  mad  as  he, 
If  sad  and  merry  madness  equal  be. — 

Unter  Malyolio. 

How  now,  Malvolio ! 

MoL    Sweet  lady,  ho,  ho.  [^S)7iiles  fantastically 

OIL    Smil'st  thou? 
I  sent  for  thee  upon  a  sad  occasion. 

Mai.  Sad,  lady  ?  I  could  be  sad :  this  does  make  some 
obstruction  in  the  blood,  this  cross-gartering :  But  what  of 
that  ?  if  it  please  the  eye  of  one,  it  is  with  me  as  the  very 
true  sonnet  is  :  please  one,  and  please  all. 

Oil.  Why,  how  dost  thou,  man  ?  what  is  the  matter  with 
thee? 

Mai.  Not  black  in  my  mind,  though  yellow  in  my  legs : 
It  did  come  to  his  hands,  and  commands  shall  be  executed. 
I  think,  we  do  know  the  sweet  Roman  hand. 

Oil.    Wilt  thou  go  to  bed,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.    To  bed  ?  ay,  sweetheart ;  and  I'll  come  to  thee. 

OIL  God  comfort  thee !  Why  dost  thou  smile  so,  and 
kiss  thy  hand  so  oft  ? 

Mai:    How  do  you,  Malvolio  ? 

3Ial.  At  your  request  ?    Yes  ;  nightingales  answer  daws. 

3Iai'.  Why  appear  you  with  this  ridiculous  boldness  before 
my  lady? 

3Ial.    Be  not  afraid  of  greatness  : — 'twas  well  writ. 

Oli.    What  meanest  thou  by  that,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.    Some  are  horn  great, — 

OIL    Ha? 

Mai.    Some  achieve  greatness, — 

Oli.    What  say'st  thou  ? 

Mai.    And  some  have  greatness  thrust  upon  them. 

Oli.    Heaven  restore  thee ! 

Mai.  Remember,  who  commended  thy  yellow  stockings; — 

Oli.    Thy  yellow  stockings  ? 

Mai.    And  wished  to  see  thee  cross-gartered. 

Oli.    Cross-gartered  ? 

Mai.    Cro  to:  thou  art  made,  if  thou  desirest  to  he  so; — 

Oli.    Am  I  made? 

Mai.    If  not,  let  me  see  thee  a  servant  still. 

Oli.    Why,  this  is  very  midsummer  madness. 

JEnter  Servant. 
8er.  Madam,  the  young  gentleman  of  the  count  Orsino'a 


AcTllL]  WHAT    YOU  WILL  233 

is  returned ;  I  could  hardly  entreat  Mm  back :  lie  attends 
your  ladyship's  pleasure. 

Oli.  I'll  come  to  him,  [Exit  Servant.]  Good  Maria, 
let  this  fellow  be  looked  to.  Where's  my  cousin  Toby  ? 
Let  some  of  my  people  have  a  special  care  of  him ;  I  would 
not  have  him  miscarry  for  the  half  of  my  dowry. 

\Exeu7it  Olivia  and  Makia. 

Mai.  Oh,  ho  !  Do  you  come  near  me  now  ?  No  worse 
man  than  Sir  Toby  to  look  to  me  ?  This  concurs  directly 
with  the  letter :  she  sends  him  on  purpose,  that  I  may  ap- 
pear stubborn  to  him ;  for  she  incites  me  to  that  in  the  let- 
ter. Cast  thy  humble  sloughy  says  she ;  he  oi^posite  ivith  a 
kinsman,  surly  with  servants, —  let  thy  tongue  tang  with 
arguments  of  state, — put  thyself  into  the  trick  of  singula- 
rity ;  —  and,  consequently,  sets  down  the  manner  how ;  as, 
a  sad  face,  a  reverend  carriage,  a  slow  tongue,  in  the  habit 
of  some  sir  of  note,  and  so  forth.  I  have  limed  her  ;  but  it 
is  Jove's  doing,  and  Jove  make  me  thankful !  And,  when 
she  went  away  now,  Let  this  fellow  be  looked  to :  Fellow ! 
not  Malvolio,  nor  after  my  degree,  but  fellow.  Why  every 
thing  adheres  together ;  that  no  dram  of  a  scruple,  no  scru- 
ple of  a  scruple,  no  obstacle,  no  incredulous  or  unsafe  cir- 
cumstance,— what  can  be  said  ?  Nothing  that  can  be,  can 
come  between  me  and  the  full  prospect  of  my  hopes.  Well, 
Jove,  not  I,  is  the  doer  of  this,  and  he  is  to  be  thanked. 

Re-enter  Maria,  with  Sir  Toby  Belch  and  Fabian. 

Sir  To.  Which  way  is  he,  in  the  name  of  sanctity  ?  If 
all  the  devils  in  hell  be  drawn  in  little,  and  Legion  himself 
possessed  him,  yet  I'll  speak  to  him. 

Fah.  Here  he  is,  here  he  is. — How  is't  with  you,  sir  ? 
How  is't  with  you,  man  ? 

Mai.  Go  oif:  I  discard  you;  let  me  enjoy  my  private; 
go  off. 

Mar.  Lo,  how  hollow  the  fiend  speaks  within  him  !  Did 
not  I  tell  you? — Sir  Toby,  my  lady  prays  you  to  have 
a  care  of  him. 

Mai.    Ah,  ha  !     Does  she  so  ? 

Sir  To.  Go  to,  go  to ;  peace,  peace ;  we  must  deal  gen- 
tly with  him;  let  me  alone.  How  do  you,  Malvolio? 
how  is't  with  you  ?  What,  man  !  defy  the  devil ;  consider, 
he's  an  enemy  to  mankind. 

Mai.    Do  you  know  what  you  say  ? 

Mar.  La  you,  an  you  speak  ill  of  the  devil,  ho^  he  takes 
it  at  heart !     Pray  God,  he  be  not  bewitched ! 

Fah.    Carry  his  water  to  the  wise  Avoman. 


234  TWELFTH   NIGHT;    Oil,  [Act  III. 

Mm     INIarry,  and  it  shall  be  done  to-morrow  morning,  if 
I  live.     My  lady  would  not  lose  him  for  more  than  I'll  say. 
dial     How  now,  mistress? 
Mar.  0  lord! 

Sir  To.  Pr'ythee,  hold  thy  peace ;  this  is  not  the  way. 
Do  you  not  see,  you  move  him  ?  let  me  alone  with  him. 

Fab.  No  way  but  gentleness ;  gently,  gently ;  the  fiend 
is  rough,  and  will  not  be  roughly  used. 

Sir  To.    Why,  how  now,  my  bawcock?  how  dost  thou, 
chuck  ? 
3faL    Sir? 

Sir  To.  Ay,  biddy,  come  with  me.  What,  man  !  'tis  not 
for  gravity  to  play  at  cherry-pit  with  Satan :  Hang  him, 
foul  collier  ! 

3Iar.  Get  him  to  say  his  prayers ;  good  Sir  Toby,  get 
him  to  pray. 

Mai.    My  prayers,  minx? 

3Iar.  No,  I  warrant  you,  he  will  not  hear  of  godliness. 
Mai.    Go,  hang  yourselves    all!    you   are    idle,   shallow 
things :  I  am  not  of  your  element ;  you  shall  know  more 
hereafter.  \_Uxit. 

Sir  To.    Is't  possible? 

Fab.  If  this  were  played  upon  a  stage  now,  I  could  con- 
demn it  as  an  improbable  fiction. 

Sir  To.  His  very  genius  hath  taken  the  infection  of  the 
device,  man. 

Mar.  Nay,  pursue  him  now ;  lest  the  device  take  air,  and 
taint. 

Fab.  Why,  we  shall  make  him  mad,  indeed. 
Mar.  The  house  will  be  the  quieter. 
Sir  To.  Come,  we'll  have  him  in  a  dark  room,  and  bound. 
My  niece  is  already  in  the  belief  that  he  is  mad ;  we  may 
carry  it  thus,  for  our  pleasure,  and  his  penance,  till  our  very 
pastime,  tired  out  of  breath,  prompt  us  to  have  mercy  on 
him ;  at  which  time,  we  will  bring  the  device  to  the  bar,  and 
crown  thee  for  a  finder  of  madmen.     But  see,  but  see. 

Fnter  SiR  Andrew  Ague-cheek. 

Fab.    More  matter  for  a  May  morning. 

Sir  And.  Here's  the  challenge;  read  it;  I  warrant 
there's  vinegar  and  pepper  in't. 

Fab.    Is't  so  saucy  ? 

Sir  And    Ay  is  it,  I  warrant  him ;   do  but  read. 

Sir  To.  Give  me.  lReads.'\  Youth,  whatsoever  thou 
art,  thou  art  but  a  scurvy  fellow. 

Fab.    Good    and  valiant. 


Act  III]  WHAT   YOU   WILL.     '  235 

Sir  To.  Wonder  not,  nor  admire  not  in  thy  mind,  why  1 
do  call  thee  so,  for  I  will  show  thee  no  reason  for  t. 

Fah.  A  good  note :  that  keeps  you  from  the  blow  of  the  law. 

Sir  To.  Thou  comest  to  the  lady  Olivia,  and  in  my  sight 
she  uses  thee  kindly :  but  thou  liest  in  thy  throat ;  that  is 
not  the  matter  I  challenge  thee  for. 

Fab.    Very  brief,  and  exceeding  good  sense-less. 

Sir  To.  I  will  waylay  thee  going  hoyne  ;  where  if  it  be 
thy  chance  to  kill  me, — 

Fab.    Good. 

Sir  To.    Thou  killest  me  like  a  rogue  and  a  villain. 

Fab.   Still  you  keep  o'  the  windy  side  of  the  law :  Good 

Sir  To.  Fare  thee  well:  And  God  have  mercy  upon  one 
of  our  souls  !  He  may  have  mercy  upon  mine  ;  but  my  hope 
is  better,  and  so  look  to  thyself.  Thy  friend,  as  thou  usest 
him,  and  thy  sivorn  enemy. Andrew  Ague-cheek. 

Sir  To.  If  this  letter  move  him  not,  his  legs  cannot :  I'll 
give't  him. 

Mar.  You  may  have  very  fit  occasion  for't ;  he  is  now  in 
some  commerce  Avith  my  lady,  and  will  by  and  by  depart. 

Sir  To.  Go,  Sir  Andrew ;  scout  me  for  him  at  the  corner 
of  the  orchard,  like  a  bum-bailiff:  so  soon  as  ever  thou 
seest  him,  draw ;  and,  as  thou  drawest,  swear  horrible ;  for 
it  comes  to  pass  oft,  that  a  terrible  oath,  with  a  swaggering 
accent,  sharply  twanged  off,  gives  manhood  more  approbation 
than  even  proof  itself  would  have  earned  him.     Away. 

iSVr  And.    Nay,  let  me  alone  for  swearing.  [Exit 

^ir  To.  Now  will  I  not  deliver  his  letter ;  for  the  behavior 
of  the  young  gentleman  gives  him  out  to  be  of  good  capacity 
and  breeding  ;  his  employment  between  his  lord  and  my 
niece  confirms  no  less ;  therefore  this  letter,  being  so  ex- 
cellently ignorant,  will  breed  no  terror  in  the  youth ;  he 
will  find  it  comes  from  a  clodpole.  But,  sir,  I  will  deliver 
his  challenge  by  word  of  mouth;  set  upon  Ague-cheek  a 
notable  report  of  valor ;  and  drive  the  gentleman  (as  I  know 
his  youth  will  aptly  receive  it)  into  a  most  hideous  opinion 
of  his  rage,  skill,  fury,  and  impetuosity.  This  will  so  fright 
them  both,  that  they  will  kill  one  another  by  the  look,  like 
cockatrices. 

Enter  Olivia  and  Viola. 

Fab.  Here  he  comes  with  your  niece:  give  them  way, 
till  he  take  leave,  and  presently  after  him. 

Sir  To.  I  will  meditate  the  while  upon  some  horrid  mes- 
Bage  for  a  challenge. 

[Exeunt  Sir  Toby,  Fabian  and  Maria. 


236  TWELFTH    NIGHT;    OR,         [Act  III 

Oli.    I  ha  TO  said  too  much  unto  a  heart  of  stone, 
And  laid  mine  honour  too  unchary  out : 
There's  something  in  me  that  reproves  my  fault ; 
But  such  a  headstrong,  potent  fault  it  is, 
That  it  but  mocks  reproof. 

Vio,    With  the  same  'havior  that  your  passion  bears, 
Go  on  my  master's  griefs. 

Oli.    Here,  wear  this  jewel  for  me;  'tis  my  picture; 
Refuse  it  not :  it  hath  no  tongue  to  vex  you  ■. 
And,  I  beseech  you,  come  again  to-morrow. 
What  shall  you  ask  of  me  that  I'll  deny, 
That  honor,  saved,  may  upon  asking  give? 

Vio.    Nothing  but  this,  your  true  love  for  my  master, 

Oli.   How  with  mine  honor  may  I  give  him  that 
Which  I  have  given  to  you  ? 

Vio.  I  will  acquit  you. 

Oli.    Well,  come  again  to-morrow :  fare  thee  well, 
A  fiend,  like  thee,  might  bear  my  soul  to  hell.       [Exit. 

Re-enter  Sir  Toby  Belch  and  Fabian. 

Sir  To.    Gentleman,   God  save  thee. 

Vio.    And  you,  sir. 

Sir  To.  That  defence  thou  hast,  betake  thee  to't ;  of 
what  nature  the  wrongs  are  thou  hast  done  him,  I  know  not ; 
but  thy  interceptor,  full  of  despite,  bloody  as  the  -hunter, 
attends  thee  at  the  orchard  end  :  dismount  thy  tuck,  be  yare 
in  thy  preparation,  for  thy  assailant  is  quick,  skilful,  and 
deadly. 

Vio.  You  mistake,  sir ;  I  am  sure  no  man  hath  any  quarrel 
to  me ;  my  remembrance  is  very  free  and  clear  from  any 
image  of  offence  done  to  any  man. 

Sir  To.  You'll  find  it  otherwise,  I  assure  you :  therefore^, 
if  you  hold  your  life  at  any  price,  betake  you  to  your  guard ; 
for  your  opposite  hath  in  him  what  youth,  strength,  skill, 
and  wrath,  can  furnish  man  withal. 

Vio.    I  pray  you,  sir,  what  is  he? 

Sir  To.  He  is  knight,  dubbed  with  unbacked  rapier,  and 
on  carpet  consideration ;  but  he  is  a  devil  in  private  brawl : 
souls  and  bodies  hath  he  divorced  three ;  and  his  incense- 
ment  at  this  moment  is  so  implacable,  that  satisfaction  can 
be  none  but  by  pangs  of  death  and  sepulchre :  hob,  nob, 
is  his  Mord;  giv't,  or  take't. 

Vio.  I  will  return  again  into  the  house,  and  desire  some 
conduct  of  the  lady.  I  am  no  fighter.  I  have  heard  of 
some  kind  of  men,  that  put  quarrels  purposely  on  others,  to 
taste  their  valor :  belike,  this  is  a  man  of  that  quii'k. 


Act  III.]  WHAT    YOU    WILL.  237 

Sir  To.  Sir,  no ;  his  indignation  derives  itself  out  of  a 
very  competent  injury ;  therefore,  get  you  on,  and  give  him 
his  desire.  Back  you  shall  not  to  the  house,  unless  you 
undertake  that  with  me,  which  with  as  much  safety  you 
might  answer  him :  therefore  on,  or  strip  your  sword  stark 
naked ;  for  meddle  you  must,  that's  certain,  or  forswear  to 
wear  iron  about  you. 

Vio.  This  is  as  uncivil  as  strange.  I  beseech  you,  do  me 
this  courteous  oiEce,  as  to  know  of  the  knight  what  my  offence 
to  him  is ;  it  is  something  of  my  negligence,  nothing  of 
my  purpose. 

Sir  To.  I  will  do  so.  Signior  Fabian,  stay  you  by  this 
gentleman  till  my  retui'n.  [^Exit  Sir  Toby. 

Vio.    Pray  you,  sir,  do  you  know  of  this  matter? 

Fah.  I  know  the  knight  is  incensed  against  you,  even 
to  a  mortal  arbitrement ;  but  nothing  of  the  circumstance 
more. 

Vio.    I  beseech  you,  what  manner  of  man  is  he? 

Fah.  Nothing  of  that  wonderful  promise,  to  read  him  by 
his  form,  as  you  are  like  to  find  him  in  the  proof  of  his 
valor.  He  is,  indeed,  sir,  the  most  skilful,  bloody,  and  fatal 
opposite  that  you  could  possibly  have  found  in  any  part  of 
Illyria.  Will  you  walk  towards  him  ?  I  will  make  your 
peace  with  him  if  I  can. 

Vio.  I  shall  be  much  bound  to  you  for't :  I  am  one,  that 
would  rather  go  with  sir  priest,  than  sir  knight :  I  care  not 
who  knows  so  much  of  my  mettle.  \_Exeunt. 

Re-enter  SiR  Toby,  with  Sir  Andrew. 

Sir  To.  Why,  man,  he's  a  very  devil ;  I  have  not  seen 
such  a  virago.  I  had  a  pass  with  laim,  rapier,  scabbard,  and 
all,  and  he  gives  me  the  stuckin,  with  such  a  mortal  motion, 
that  it  is  inevitable ;  and  on  the  answer,  he  pays  you  as 
surely  as  your  feet  hit  the  ground  they  step  on :  they  say, 
he  has  been  fencer  to  the  Sophy. 

Sir  And.    Pox  on't,  I'll  not  meddle  with  him. 

Sir  To.  Ay,  but  he  will  not  now  be  pacified ;  Fabian  can 
scarce  hold  him  yonder. 

Sir  And.  Plague  on't :  an  I  thought  he  had  been  valiant 
and  so  cunning  in  fence,  I'd  have  seen  him  damned  ere  I'd 
have  challenged  him.  Let  him  let  the  matter  slip,  and  I'll 
give  him  my  horse,  gray  Capilet. 

Sir  To.  I'll  make  the  motion :  stand  here,  make  a  good 
show  on't ;  this  shall  end  without  the  perdition  of  souls . 
marry,  I'll  ride  your  horse  as  well  as  I  ride  you.       \^Aside. 


238  TWELFTH  NIGHT;    OR,         [Act  III 

Re-enter  Fabian  and  Viola. 

I  have  \m  horse  \to  Fab.]  to  take  up  the  quarrel ;  I  have 
persuaded  him  the  youth's  a  devil. 

Fab.  lie  is  as  horribly  conceited  of  him  ;  and  pants,  and 
looks  pale,  as  if  a  bear  were  at  his  heels. 

Sir  To.  There's  no  remedy,  sir ;  he  will  fight  with  you 
for  his  oath's  sake :  marry,  he  hath  better  bethought  him 
of  his  quarrel,  and  he  finds  that  now  scarce  to  be  worth 
talking  of:  therefore  draw,  for  the  supportance  of  his  vow; 
he  protests,  he  will  not  hurt  you. 

Vio.  Pray  God  defend  me  !  A  little  thing  would  make 
me  tell  them  how  much  I  lack  of  a  man.  [Aside. 

Fab.    Give  ground,  if  you  see  him  furious. 

Sir  To.  Come,  Sir  Aiirew,  there's  no  remedy;  the  gen- 
tleman will,  for  his  honor's  sake,  have  one  bout  with  you; 
he  cannot  by  the  duello  avoid  it ;  but  he  has  promised  me, 
as  he  is  a  gentleman  and  a  soldier,  he  will  not  hurt  you. 
Come  on :  to't. 

Sir  And.    Pray  God,  he  keep  his  oath !  [Draws. 

Enter  Antonio. 

Vio.    I  do  assure  you,  'tis  against  my  will.      [Draws. 

Ant.    Put  up  your  sword ;  —  If  this  young  gentleman 
Have  done  offence,  I  take  the  fault  on  me ; 
If  you  offend  him,  I  for  him  defy  you.  [Drawing. 

Sir  To.    You,  sir?  why,  what  are  you? 

Ant.    One,  sir,  that  for  his  love  dares  yet  do  more 
Than  you  have  heard  him  brag  to  you  he  will. 

Sir  To.    Nay,  if  you  be  an  undertaker,  I  am  for  you. 

[Draws. 
Enter  Two  Officers. 

Fab.    0  good  sir  Toby,  hold ;  here  come  the  officers. 

Sir  To.    I'll  be  with  you  anon.  [To  Antonio. 

Vio.    Pray,  sir,  put  up  your  sword,  if  you  please. 

[To  Sir  Andrew. 

Sir  And.  Marry,  will  I,  sir ;  —  and  for  that  I  promised 
you,  I'll  be  as  good  as  my  word :  he  will  bear  you  easily ; 
and  reins  well. 

1  Off.    This  is  the  man ;  do  thy  office. 

2  Off,    Antonio,  I  arrest  thee  at  the  suit 
Of  Count  Orsino. 

Ant.  You  do  mistake  me,  sir. 

1  Off.  No,  sir,  no  jot ;  I  know  your  favor  well, 
Though  now  you  have  no  sea-cap  on  your  h3ad.— 
Take  him  away;  he  knows  I  know  him  well. 


Act  III.]  WHAT   YOU   WILL.  230 

An-.    I  must  obey. — This  comes  with  seeking  you ; 
But  there's  no  remedy ;  I  shall  answer  it. 
What  will  you  do  ?     Now  my  necessity 
Makes  me  to  ask  you  for  my  purse :  It  grieves  me 
Much  more,  for  what  I  cannot  do  for  you, 
Than  what  befalls  myself.     You   stand  amazed ; 
But  be  of  comfort. 

2  Off.    Come,  sir,  away. 

Ant.    I  must  entreat  of  you  some  of  that  money. 
Vio.    What  money,  sir  ? 
For  the  fair  kindness  you  have  showed  me  here, 
And,  part,  being  prompted  by  your  present  trouble, 
Out  of  my  lean  and  low  ability 
I'll  lend  you  something :  my  having  is  not  much ; 
I'll  make  division  of  my  present  with  you; 
Hold,  there  is  half  my  coffer. 

A7it.  Will  you  deny  me  now? 

Is't  possible,  that  my  deserts  to  you 
Can  lack  persuasion?     Do  not  tempt  my  misery, 
Lest  that  it  make  me  so  unsound  a  man, 
As  to  upbraid  you  with  those  kindnesses 
That  I  have  done  for  you. 

Vio.  I  know  of  none ; 

Nor  know  I  you  by  voice,  or  any  feature : 
I  hate  ingratitude  more  in  a  man, 
Than  lying,  vainness,  babbling,  drunkenness, 
Or  any  taint  of  vice,  whose  strong  corruption 
Inhabits  our  frail  blood. 

Ant.  0  heavens  themselves  ! 

2  Off.    Come,  sir,  I  pray  you  go. 

Ant.  Let  me  speak  a  little.     This  youth  that  you  see  hero, 
I  snatched  one  half  out  of  the  jaws  of  death ; 

Relieved  him  with  such  sanctity  of  love, 

And  to  his  image,  which  methought  did  pi-omise 
Most  venerable  worth,  did  I  devotion. 

1  Off.    What's  that  to  us  ?     The  time  goes  by ;  away. 

Ant.    But,   0,  how  vile  an  idol  proves  this  god!  — 
Thou  hast,   Sebastian,  done  good  feature  shame. — 
In  nature  there's  no  blemish,  but  the  mind ; 
None  can  be  called  deformed,  but  the  unkind: 
Virtue  is  beauty ;  but  the  beauteous-evil 
Are  empty  trunks,  o'erflourished  by  the  devil. 

1  Off'.    The  man  grows  mad ;  away  with  him. 
Come,  come,  sir. 

Ant.    Lead  me  on.  [^I]xeu7it  Officers  with  Ant. 

Vio.    Methiuks,  his  words  do  from  such  passion  fly. 


240  TWELFTH   NIGHT;    OR,         [Act  IV. 

That  lie  believes  himself;  so  do  not  I. 
Prove  true,  imagination,  0,  prove  true 
That  I,  dear  brother,  be  now  ta'en  for  you ! 

Sir  To.  Come  hither,  knight ;  come  hither,  Fabian ;  we'll 
whisper  o'er  a  couplet  or  two  of  most  sage  saws. 

Vio.    He  named  Sebastian ;  I  my  brother  know 
Yet  living  in  my  glass ;  even  such,  and  so, 
In  favor  was  my  brother ;  and  he  went 
Still  in  this  fashion,  color,   ornament, 
For  him  I  imitate ;  0,  if  it  prove. 
Tempests  are  kind,  and  salt  waves  fresh  in  love ! 

[JSxit. 

Sir  To.  A  very  dishonest,  paltry  boy,  and  more  a  coward 
than  a  hare :  his  dishonesty  appears,  in  leaving  his  friend 
here  in  necessity,  and  denying  him  ;  and  for  his  cowardship, 
ask  Fabian. 

Fab.    A  coward,  a  most  devout  coward,  religious  in  it. 

Sir  And.    'Slid,  I'll  after  him  again,  and  beat  him. 

Sir  To.    Do,  cuff  him  soundly,  but  never  draw  thy  sword. 

Sir  And.    An  I  do  not.  [^Exit. 

Fab.    Come,  let's  see  the  event. 

Sir  To.    I  dare  lay  any  money,  'twill  be  nothing  yet. 

[^Fxeunt. 


ACT   IV. 

SCENE  I.     The  Street  before  Olivia's  House. 
Enter  Sebastian  and  Clown. 

Clo.  Will  you  make  me  believe  that  I  am  not  sent  for 
you? 

Seh.    Go  to,  go  to,  thou  art  a  foolish  fellow; 
Let  me  be  clear  of  thee. 

Clo.  Well  held  out,  i'faith  !  —  No,  I  do  not  know  you ; 
Nor  I  am  not  sent  to  you  by  my  lady,  to  bid  you  come  speak 
with  her ;  nor  your  name  is  not  master  Cesario  ;  nor  this  is 
not  my  nose  neither.     Nothing,  that  is  so,  is  so. 

Seh.    I  pr'ythee,  vent  thy  folly  somewhere  else ; 
Thou  know'st  not  me. 

Clo.    Vent  my  folly  !     He  has  heard  that  word  of  some 

great  man,  and  now  applies  it  to  a  fool.    Vent  my  folly  !    I 

am  afraid  this  great  lubber,  the  world,  will  prove  a  cockney. 

—I  pr'ythee  now,  ungird  thy  strangeness,  and  tell  me  what 


A.CTIV.]  WHAT    YOU    WILL.  241 

I  shall  vent  to  my  lady ;  Shall  I  vent  to  her,  that  thou  art 
coming  ? 

Seh.    I  pr'ythee,  foolish  Greek,  depart  from  me ; 
There's  money  for  thee ;  if  you  tarry  longer, 
I  shall  give  worse  payment. 

Clo.  By  my  troth,  thou  hast  an  open  hand :  — These  wise 
men,  that  give  fools  money,  get  themselves  a  good  report 
after  fourteen  years'  purchase. 

Enter  Sir  Andrew,  Sir  Toby,  and  Fabian. 

Sir  And.  Now,  sir,  have  I  met  you  again  ?  there's  for 
you.  \_Striking  Sebastian. 

Seh.  Why,  there's  for  thee,  and  there,  and  there :  arc  all 
the  people  mad !  [^Beating  Sir  Andrew. 

Sir  To.  Hold,  sir,  or  I'll  throw  your  dagger  o'er  the  house. 

Olo.  This  will  I  tell  my  lady  straight ;  I  would  not  be 
in  some  of  your  coats  for  two-pence.  [^Exit  Clown. 

Sir  To.    Come  on,  sir ;  hold.  [^Holding  Sebastian. 

Sir  And.  Nay,  let  him  alone ;  I'll  go  another  way  to 
work  with  him ;  I'll  have  an  action  of  battery  against  him, 
if  there  be  any  law  in  Illyria :  though  I  struck  him  first, 
yet  it's  no  matter  for  that. 

Seh.    Let  go  thy  hand. 

Sir  To.  Come,  sir,  I  will  not  let  you  go.  Come,  my 
young  soldier,  put  up  your  iron :  you  are  well  fleshed ; 
come  on. 

Seh  I  will  be  free  from  thee.  What  would'st  thou  now  ? 
If  thou  dar'st  tempt  me  further,  draw  thy  sword.    [Draws. 

Sir  To.  What,  what !  Nay,  then  I  must  have  an  ounce 
or  two  of  this  malapert  blood  from  you.  [I)raw8~ 

Enter  Olivia. 

Oli.    Hold,  Toby ;  on  thy  life,  I  charge  thee,  hold. 

Sir  To.    Madam! 

Oli.    W^ill  it  be  ever  thus  ?     Ungracious  wretch, 
Fit  for  the  mountains  and  the  barbarous  caves. 
Where  manners  ne'er  were  preached !  out  of  my  sight ! 

Be  not  offended,  dear  Cesario : 

Rudesby,  be  gone :  —  I  pr'ythee,  gentle  friend, 

\_Exeunt  SiR  Toby,  Sir  Andrew,  and  Fabian. 
Let  thy  fair  wisdom,  not  thy  passion,  sway 
In  this  uncivil  and  unjust  extent 
Against  thy  peace.     Go  with  me  to  my  house ; 
And  hear  thou  there  how  many  fruitless  pranks 
This  ruffian  hath  botched  up,  that  thou  thereby 
May'st  smile  at  this:  thou  shalt  not  choose  but  go; 

Vol.  L  — 16  V 


242  TWELFTH    NIGHT;    OK,         [Act  IV 

Do  not  deny :  beshrew  his  soul  for  me, 
He  started  one  poor  heart  of  mine  in  thee. 

Seb.    What  relish  is  in  this?  how  runs  the  stream? 
Or  I  am  mad,  or  else  this  is  a  dream :  — 
Let  fancy  still  my  sense  in  Lethe  steep ; 
If  it  he  thus  to  dream,  still  let  me  sleep  ! 

Oil.    Nay,  come,  I  pr'ythee  :   'Would  thoud'st  be  ruled  by 


me 


Seb.    Madam,  I  will. 

Oil.  0,  say  so,  and  so  be !    \_Uxeunt. 

SCENE  II.     A  Room  in  Olivia's  House. 
Enter  Makia  and  Clown. 

Mar.  Nay,  I  pr'ythee,  put  on  this  gown,  and  this  beard; 
make  him  believe  thou  art  Sir  Topas  the  curate ;  do  it 
quickly  :  I'll  call  Sir  Toby  the  whilst.  [Exit  Maria. 

do.  Well,  I'll  put  it  on,  and  I  will  dissemble  myself  in't ; 
and  I  would  I  were  the  first  that  ever  dissembled  in  such  a 
gov/n.  I  am  not  tall  enough  to  become  the  function  well ;  nor 
lean  enough  to  be  thought  a  good  student :  but  to  be  said, 
an  honest  man,  and  a  good  housekeeper,  goes  as  fairly  as  to 
say,  a  careful  man,  and  a  great  scholar.  The  competitors 
enter. 

Enter  Sir  Toby  Belch  and  Maria. 

Sir  To.    Jove  bless  thee,  master  parson. 

Glo.  Bonos  dies,  Sir  Toby :  for  as  the  old  hermit  of 
Prague,  that  never  saw  pen  and  ink,  very  wittily  said  to  a 
niece  of  king  Gorboduc,  That,  that  is,  is :  so  I,  being  mas- 
ter parson,  am  master  parson.  For  what  is  that,  but  that  ? 
and  is,  but  is  ? 

Sir  To.    To  him,  Sir  Topas. 

Clo.    What,  boa,  I  say  ;  —  peace  in  this  prison  !         ^ 

Sir  To.    The  knave  counterfeits  well :    a  good  knave. 

Mai.  [In  an  inner  chamber.^  Who  calls  there  ? 

Clo.  Sir  Topas  the  curate,  who  comes  to  visit  Malvolio 
the  lunatic. 

Mai.  Sir  Topas,  Sir  Topas,  good  Sir  Topas,  go  to  my  lady. 

Clo.  Out,  hyperbolical  fiend  !  how  vexest  thou  this  man  ? 
talkest  thou  nothing  but  of  ladies? 

Sir  To.    Well  said,  master  parson. 

3Ial.  Sir  Topas,  never  was  man  thus  wronged:  good  Sir 
Topas,  do  not  think  I  am  mad :  they  have  laid  me  here  in 
hideous  darkness. 


Ac.  IV  J  WHAT   YOU   WILL.  243 

Clo.  Fie,  thou  dishonest  Sathan  !  I  call  thee  by  the  iQost 
modest  terms ;  for  I  am  one  of  those  gentle  ones,  that  will 
use  the  devil  himself  with  courtesy  :  say'st  thou,  that  house 
is  dark  ? 

Mai.    As  hell,  Sir  Topas. 

Clo.  Why,  it  hath  bay-windows  transparent  as  barrica- 
does,  and  the  clear  stories  towards  the  south-north  are  as 
lustrous  as  ebony  ;  and  yet  complainest  thou  of  obstruction  ? 

Mai.  I  am  not  mad.  Sir  Topas :  I  say  to  you,  this  house 
is  dark. 

Clo.  Madman,  thou  errest :  I  say,  there  is  no  darkness, 
but  ignorance;  in  which  thou  art  more  puzzled  than  the 
Egyptians  in  their  fog. 

3Ial.  I  say,  this  house  is  as  dark  as  ignorance,  though 
ignorance  were  as  dark  as  hell ;  and  I  say,  there  was  never 
man  thus  abused :  I  am  no  more  mad  than  you  are ;  make 
the  trial  of  it  in  any  constant  question. 

Clo.  What  is  the  opinion  of  Pythagoras  concerning  wild- 
fowl ? 

3Ial.  That  the  soul  of  our  grandam  might  haply  inhabit 
a  bird. 

Clo.    What  thinkest  thou  of  his  opinion  ? 

Mai.  I  think  nobly  of  the  soul,  and  no  way  approve  his 
opinion. 

Clo.  Fare  thee  wel ! .  remain  thou  still  in  darkness :  thou 
shalt  hold  the  opinion  oi  ±'ythagoras,  ere  I  will  allow  of  thy 
wits ;  and  fear  to  kill  a  woodcock,  lest  thou  dispossess  the 
soul  of  thy  grandam.     Fare  thee  well. 

Mai.    Sir  Topas,   Sir  Topas,— 

Sir  To.    My  most  exquisite  Sir  Topas ! 

Clo.    Nay,  I  am  for  all  waters. 

3Iar.  Thou  might'st  have  done  this  without  thy  beard 
and  gown ;  he  sees  thee  not. 

Sii-  To.  To  him  in  thine  own  voice,  and  bring  me  word 
how  thou  findest  him ;  I  would  we  were  well  rid  of  this 
knavery.  If  he  may  be  conveniently  delivered,  I  would  ho 
were ;  for  I  am  now  so  far  in  offence  with  my  niece,  that  I 
cannot  pursue  with  any  safety  this  sport  to  the  upshot. 
Come  by  and  by  to  my  chamber. 

[^Exeunt  Sir  Toby  and  Maria. 

Clo.    Hey  Robin,  jolly  liobin, 

Tell  m<'  how  thy  lady  does.  [^Singing 

Mai.    Fool,— 

Clo.    My  lady  is  imJcind,  perdy. 

Mai    Fool,— 

Clo.   Alas^  why  is  she  so? 


244  TWELFTH    NiaUT;    OR,          [Act  IV 

Mai.    Fool,  I  say;  — 

Clo.    She  loves  another  —  Who  calls,  ha? 

3IaL  Good  fool,  as  ever  thou  wilt  deserve  well  at  my 
hand,  help  me  to  a  candle,  and  pen,  ink,  and  paper ;  as  I  am 
a  gentleman,  I  will  live  to  be  thankful  to  thee  for't. 

Clo.    Master  Malvolio ! 

Mai.   Ay,  good  fool. 

Clo.    Alas,  sir,  how  fell  you  beside  your  five  wits  ? 

Mai.  Fool,  there  was  never  man  so  notoriously  abused : 
I  am  as  well  in  my  wits,  fool,  as  thou  art. 

Clo.  But  as  well  ?  then  you  are  mad,  indeed,  if  you  be 
no  better  in  your  wits  than  a  fool. 

3Ial.  They  have  here  propertied  me ;  keep  me  in  dark- 
ness, send  ministers  to  me,  asses,  and  do  all  they  can  to 
face  me  out  of  my  wits. 

Clo.  Advise  you  what  you  say :  the  minister  is  here, — 
Malvolio,  Malvolio,  thy  wits  the  heavens  restore  !  endeavor 
thyself  to  sleep,  and  leave  thy  vain  bibble  babble. 

Mai.    Sir  Topas, 

Clo.  Maintain  no  words  with  him,  good  fellow. — Who,  I, 
sir?  not  I,  sir.  God  b'wi'you,  good  Sir  Topas.  —  Marry, 
amen.  —  I  will,  sir,  I  will. 

Mai.    Fool,  fool,  fool,  I  say. — 

Clo.  Alas,  sir,  be  patient.  What  say  you,  sir?  I  am 
shent  for  speaking  to  you. 

3Ial.  Good  fool,  help  me  to  some  light,  and  some  paper ; 
I  tell  thee,  I  am  as  well  in  my  wits  as  any  man  in  Illyria. 

Clo.    Well-a-day,  —  that  you  were,  sir  ! 

Mai.  By  this  hand,  I  am :  Good  fool,  some  ink,  paper, 
and  light,  and  convey  what  I  will  set  down  to  my  lady ;  it  shall 
advantage  thee  more  than  ever  the  bearing  of  letter  did. 

Clo.  I  will  help  you  to't.  But  tell  me  true,  are  you  not 
mad,  indeed  ?  or  do  you  but  counterfeit  ? 

Mai.    Believe  me,  I  am  not ;  I  tell  thee  true. 

Clo.  Nay,  I'll  ne'er  believe  a  madman  till  I  see  his  brains. 
T  will  fetch  you  light,  and  paper,  and  ink. 

Mai.  fool,  I'll  requite  it  in  the  highest  degree :  pr  ythee^ 
begone. 

Clo.  /  am  gone,  sir, 

And  anon,  sir, 
I'll  be  with  you  again, 
In  a  trice  ; 
Like  to  the  old  vice. 
Your  need  to  sustain ; 


f  Act  IV.  WHAT   YOU    WILL.  245 

WJw  with  dagger  of  lark, 
In  his  rage  and  his  wrath, 

Cries  Ah,  ha!  to  the  devil; 
Like  a  mad  lad. 
Pare  thy  nails,  dad. 

Adieu,  goodman  devil.  \^ExiL 

SCENE  III.     Olivia's  Qarden. 
Enter  Sebastian, 
Seh.    This  is  the  air;  that  is  the  glorious  sun; 
This  pearl  she  gave  me,  I  do  feel't  and  see't; 
And  though  'tis  wonder  that  enwraps  me  thus, 
Yet  'tis  not  madness.     Where's  Antonio  then? 
I  could  not  find  him  at  the  Elephant: 
Yet  there  he  was ;  and  there  I  found  this  credit. 
That  he  did  range  the  town  to  seek  me  out. 
His  counsel  now  might  do  me  golden  service : 
For  though  my  soul  disputes  well  with  my  sense, 
That  this  may  be  some  error,  but  no  madness, 
Yet  doth  this  accident  and  flood  of  fortune 
So  far  exceed  all  instance,  all  discourse. 
That  I  am  ready  to  distrust  mine  eyes, 
And  wrangle  with  my  reason,  that  persuades  me 
To  any  other  trust,  but  that  I  am  mad, 
Or  else  the  lady's  mad ;  yet,  if  'twere  so. 
She  could  not  sway  her  house,  command  her  followers, 
Take,  and  give  back  affairs,  and  their  despatch. 
With  such  a  smooth,  discreet,  and  stable  bearing, 
As,  I  perceive,  she  does :  there's  something  in't 
That  is  deceivable.     But  here  the  lady  comes. 

Enter  Olivia  and  a  Priest. 

Oli.    Blame  not  this  haste  of  mine :  If  you  mean  well, 
Now,  go  with  me,  and  with  this  holy  man, 
Into  the  chantry  by :  there,  before  him, 
And  underneath  that  consecrated  roof, 
Plight  me  the  full  assurance  of  your  faith ; 
That  my  most  jealous  and  too  doubtful  soul 
May  live  at  peace  :  he  shall  conceal  it. 
Whiles  you  are  willing  it  shall  come  to  note ; 
What  time  we  will  our  celebration  keep. 
According  to  my  birth.     What  do  you  say? 

Seh.    I'll  follow  this  good  man,  and  go  with  you; 
And,  having  sworn  truth,  ever  will  be  true. 

Oli.    Then  lead  the  way,  good  father : and  hea- 
vens so  shine. 
That  they  may  fairly  note  this  act  of  mine  !       '^^Excuni. 


246  TWELFTH    NIGHT;    OR,  [Act  V 

ACT  y. 

SCENE  1.      The  Street  before  Olivia's  Bouse. 
Enter  Cbwn  and  Fabian. 

Fab.    Now,  as  thou  lovest  me,  let  me  see  his  letter. 
Clo.    Good  master  Fabian,  grant  me  another  request. 
Fab.    Any  thing. 

Clo.    Do  not  desire  to  see  this  letter. 
Fab.    That  is,  to  give  a  dog,  and,  in  recompense,  desire 
my  dog  again. 

Enter  Duke,  Viola,  and  Attendants. 

Duke.    Belong  you  to  the  lady  Olivia,  friends  ? 

Clo.    Ay,  sir ;  Ave  are  some  of  her  trappings. 

Duke.    I  know  thee  well ;  how  dost  thou,  my  good  fellow  ? 

Clo.  Truly,  sir,  the  better  for  my  foes,  and  the  worse 
for  my  friends. 

Duke.    Just  the  contrary ;  the  better  for  thy  friends. 

Clo.    No,  sir,  the  worse. 

Duke.    How  can  that  be  ? 

Clo.  Mai'ry,  sir,  they  praise  me,  and  make  an  ass  of 
me ;  now  my  foes  tell  me  plainly  I  am  an  ass :  so  that  by 
my  foes,  sir,  I  profit  in  the  knowledge  of  myself;  and  by 
my  friends  I  am  abused :  so  that,  conclusions  to  be  as  kisses, 
if  your  four  negatives  make  your  two  affirmatives,  why,  then 
the  worse  for  my  friends,  and  the  better  for  my  foes. 

Duke.    Why,  this  is  excellent. 

Clo.  By  my  troth,  sir,  no ;  though  it  please  you  to  be 
one  of  my  friends. 

Duke.    Thou  shalt  not  be  the  worse  for  me :  there's  gold. 

Clo.  But  that  it  would  be  double-dealing,  sir,  I  would 
vou  could  make  it  another. 

Duke.    0,  you  give  me  ill  counsel. 

Clo.  Put  your  grace  in  your  pocket,  sir,  for  this  once, 
and  let  your  flesh  and  blood  obey  it. 

Duke.  Well,  I  will  be  so  much  a  sinner  to  be  a  double- 
dealer  ;  there's  another. 

Clo.  Primo,  secundo,  tertio,  is  a  good  play ;  and  the  old 
saying  is,  the  third  pays  for  all ;  the  triplex,  sir,  is  a  good 
tripping  measure ;  or  the  bells  of  St.  Bennet,  sir,  may  put 
you  in  mind ;  one,  two,  three. 

Duke.  You  can  fool  no  more  money  out  of  me  at  this 
throw :  if  you  will  let  your  lady  know  I  am  here  to  speak 


ActV.]  what    you    will.  247 

with  her,  and  bring  her  along  with  you,  it  may  awake  my 
bounty  further, 

Glo.  Marry,  sir,  lullaby  to  your  bounty,  till  I  come  again. 
I  go,  sir ;  but  I  would  not  have  you  to  think  that  my  desire 
of  having  is  the  sin  of  covetousness  ;  but,  as  you  say,  sir,  let 
your  bounty  take  a  nap  ;  I  will  awake  it  anon.    \_Exit,  Clown. 

Enter  Antonio  and  Officers. 

Vio.    Here  comes  the  man,  sir,  that  did  rescue  me. 

Dvhe.    That  face  of  his  do  I  remember  well ; 
Yet,   when  I  saw  it  last,  it  was  besmeared 
As  black  as  Vulcan,  in  the  smoke  of  war : 
A  bawbling  vessel  was  he  captain  of. 
For  shallow  draught,  and  bulk,  unprizable ; 
With  which  such  scathful  grapple  did  he  make 
With  the  most  noble  bottom  of  our  fleet, 
That  very  envy,  and  the  tongue  of  loss. 
Cried  fame  and  honor  on  him.  —  What's  the  matter? 

1  Off.    Orsino,  this  is  that  Antonio 
That  took  the  Phoenix  and  her  fraught,  from  Candy; 
And  this  is  he'  that  did  the  Tiger  board. 
When  your  young  nephew  Titus  lost  his  leg: 
Here  in  the  streets,  desperate  of  shame  and  state, 
In  private  brabble  did  we  apprehend  him. 

Vio.    He  did  me  kindness,  sir ;   drew  on  my  side ; 
But,  in  conclusion,  put  strange  speech  upon  me, 
I  know  not  what  'twas,  but  distraction. 

Duke.    Notable  pirate!   thou  salt-water  thief! 
What  foolish  boldness  brought  thee  to  their  mercies. 
Whom  thou,  in  terms  so  bloody,  and  so  dear. 
Hast  made  thine  enemies  ? 

Ant.  Orsino,  noble  sir, 

Be  pleased  that  I  shake  off  these  names  you  give  me 
Antonio  never  yet  was  thief,  or  pirate. 
Though,  I  confess,  on  base  and  ground  enough, 
Orsino 's  enemy.     A  witchcraft  drew  me  hither : 
That  most  ingrateful  boy  there,  by  your  side. 
From  the  rude  sea's  enraged  and  foamy  mouth 
Did  I  redeem :   a  wreck  past  hope  he  was : 
His  life  I  gave  him,  and  did  thereto  add 
My  love,  without  retention  or  restraint, 
All  his  in  dedication :   for  his  sake 
Did  I  expose  myself,  pure  for  his  love, 
Into  the  danger  of  this  adverse  town ; 
Drew  to  defend  him,  when  he  was  beset ; 
Where  being  apprehended,  his  false  cunning 


248  TWELFTH    NIGHT;    OK,  [Act  V 

(Not  meaning  to  partake  with  me  In  danacr) 

Taught  liim  to  face  me  out  of  his  acquaintanoe, 

And  grew  a  twenty-years-removed  tiling, 

While  one  would  wink :  denied  me  mine  own  purse, 

Which  I  had  recommended  to  his  use 

Not  half  an  hour  before. 

Via.  How  can  this  be  ? 

Duke.    When  came  he  to  this  town  ? 

Ant.    To-day,  my  lord ;  and  for  three  months  before. 
(No  interim,  not  a  minute's  vacancy,) 
Both  day  and  night,  did  we  keep  company. 

Enter  Olivia  and  Attendants. 

DuJce.    Here  comes  the  countess ;  now  heaven  walks  on 

earth. 

But  for  thee,  fellow,  fellow,  thy  words  are  madness: 
Three  months  this  youth  hath  tended  upon  me ; 
But  more  of  that  anon. Take  him  aside. 

OIL    What  would  my  lord,  but  that  he  may  not  have, 
Wherein  Olivia  may  seem  serviceable  ?  — 
Cesario,  you  do  not  keep  promise  with  me. 

Vio.    Madam  ? 

Duke.    Gracious  Olivia, 

Oli.     What    do    you    say,     Cesario  ? Good    my 

lord, 

Vio.    My  lord  would  speak ;   my  duty  hushes  me. 

Oli.    If  it  be  aught  to  the  old  tune    my  lord, 
It  is  as  fat  and  fulsome  to  mine  ear, 
As  howling  after  music. 

Duke.  Still  so  cruel  ? 

Oli.    Still  so  constant,  lord. 

Duke.    What !     To  perverseness  ?     You  uncivil  lady,  ^ 
To  whose  ingrate  and  unauspicious  altars 
My  soul  the  faithfull'st  offerings  hath  breathed  out, 
That  e'er  devotion  tendered  !     What  shall  I  do  ? 

Oli.  Even  what  it  please  my  lord,  that  shall  become  him 

Duke.    Why  should  I  not,  had  I  the  heart  to  do  it, 
Like  the  Egyptian  thief,  at  point  of  death. 
Kill  what  I  love ;  a  savage  jealousy. 
That  sometimes  savors  nobly?  —  But  hear  me  this: 
Since  you  to  non-regardance  cast  my  faith, 
And  that  I  partly  know  the  instiument 
That  screws  me  from  my  true  place  in  your  favor, 
Live  you,  the  marble-breasted  tyrant,  still ; 
But  this  your  minion,  whom,  I  know,  you  love, 
And  whom,  by  heaven,  I  swear,  I  tender  dearly, 


Act  v.]  WHAT    YOU    WILL.  249 

Him  will  I  tear  out  of  that  cruel  eye, 

Where  he  sits  crowned  in  his  master's  spite.- 

Come,  boy,  with  me;  my  thoughts  are  ripe  in  mischief. 

I'll  sacrifice  the  lamb  that  I  do  love. 

To  spite  a  raven's  heart  within  a  dove.  [^Groing 

Vio.    And  I,  most  jocund,  apt,  and  willingly. 
To  do  you  rest,  a  thousand  deaths  would  die. 

[Following, 

Oil.    Where  goes  Cesario  ? 

Vio.  After  him  I  love, 

More  than  I  love  these  eyes,  more  than  my  life, 
More,  by  all  mores,  than  e'er  I  shall  love  wife : 
If  I  do  feign,  you  witnesses  above. 
Punish  my  life  for  tainting  of  my  love  ! 

Oli.    Ah  me,  detested !  how  am  I  beguiled ! 

Vio.    Who  does  beguile  you  ?    Who  does  do  you  wrong  ? 

Oli.    Hast  thou  forgot  thyself !     Is  it  so  long !  — 
Call  forth  the  holy  father.  [Exit  an  Attendant. 

Duke.  Come  away.  [To  Viola. 

Oli.    Whither,  my  lord  ?  —  Cesario,  husband,  stay  ! 

DuTce.    Husband ! 

Oli.  Ay,  husband ;  can  he  that  deny  ? 

Duke.    Her  husband,  sirrah  ? 

Vio.  No,  my  lord,  not  I. 

Oli.    Alas,  it  is  the  baseness  of  thy  fear, 
That  makes  thee  strangle  thy  propriety : 
Fear  not,   Cesario ;  take  thy  fortunes  up ; 
Be  that  thou  know'st  thou  art,  and  then  thou  art 
As  great  as  that  thou  fear'st. —  0,  welcome,  father ! 

Re-enter  Attendant  and  Priest. 

Father,  I  charge  thee  by  thy  reverence. 
Here  to  unfold  (though  lately  we  intended 
To  keep  in  darkness  what  occasion  now 
Reveals  before  'tis  ripe)  what  thou  dost  know 
Hath  newly  passed  between  this  youth  and  me. 

Priest.    A  contract  of  eternal  bond  of  love, 
Confirmed  by  mutual  joinder  of  your  hands, 
Attested  by  the  holy  close  of  lips, 
8trengthened  by  interchangement  of  your  rings ; 
And  all  the  ceremony  of  this  compact 
Sealed  in  my  function,  by  my  testimony : 
Since  when,  my  watch  hath  told  me,  toward  my  grave 
I  have  travelled  but  two  hours. 

Duke.    0,  thou  dissembling  cub  !     What  wilt  thou  be, 
When  time  hath  sowed  a  grizzle  on  thy  case  ? 


'250  TWELFTH    NiailT;    OR,  [Act  V 

Or  will  not  else  thy  craft  so  quickly  grow, 
That  thine  own  trip  shall  be  thine  overthrow  ? 
Farewell,  and  take  her ;  but  direct  thy  feet. 
Where  thou  and  I  henceforth  may  never  meet. 

Vio.    My  lord,  I  do  protest, — 

on.  0,  do  not  swear ; 

Hold  little  faith,  though  thou  hast  too  much  fear. 

'Enter  Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek,  ivith  his  head  broke 

Sir  Ayid.  For  the  love  of  God,  a  surgeon ;  send  one  pre- 
sently to  Sir  Toby. 

Oli.    What's  the  matter  ? 

Sir  And.  He  has  broke  my  head  across,  and  has  given 
Sir  Toby  a  bloody  coxcomb  too :  for  the  love  of  God,  your 
help :  I  had  rather  than  forty  pound,  I  were  at  home. 

Oli.    Who  has  done  this,  Sir  Andrew? 

Sir  And.  The  count's  gentleman,  one  Cesario :  we  took 
him  for  a  coward,  but  he's  the  very  devil  incardinate. 

Duke.    My  gentleman,   Cesario  ? 

Sir  And.  Od's  lifelings,  here  he  is:  —  You  broke  my 
head  for  nothing ;  and  that  that  I  did,  I  was  set  on  to  do't 
by  Sir  Toby. 

Vio.    Why  do  you  speak  to  me  ?     I  never  hurt  you : 
You  drew  your  sword  upon  me  -without  cause ; 
But  I  bespake  you  fair,  and  hurt  you  not. 

Sir  And.  If  a  bloody  coxcomb  be  a  hurt,  you  have  hurt 
me  ;  I  think  you  set  nothing  by  a  bloody  coxcomb. 

Enter  Sir  Toby  Belch,  drmik,  led  hy  the  Clown. 

Here  comes  Sir  Toby  halting ;  you  shall  hear  more :  but 
if  he  had  not  been  in  drink,  he  would  have  tickled  you 
othergates  than  he  did. 

Duke.    How  now,  gentleman  ?     How  is't  with  you  ? 

Sir  To.  That's  all  one :  he  has  hurt  me,  and  there's  an 
end  on't.  —  Sot,  didst  see  Dick  surgeon,  sot  ? 

Clo.  0,  he's  drunk.  Sir  Toby,  an  hour  agone ;  his  eyes 
were  set  at  eight  i'  the  morning. 

Sir  To.  Then  he's  a  rogue  and  a  passy-measures  pavin ; 
I  hate  a  drunken  rogue. 

Oli.  Away  with  him :  who  hath  made  this  havoc  with  them  ? 

Sir  And.  I'll  help  you,  Sir  Toby,  because  we'll  be  dressed 
together. 

Sir  To.  Will  you  help  ?  —  An  ass-head,  and  a  cox-comb, 
and  a  knave  ?  A  thin-faced  knave,  a  gull  ? 

Oli.    Get  him  to  bed,  and  let  his  hurt  be  looked  to. 
[Exeunt  Clown,  Sir  Toby  and  Sir  Andrew. 


ActV.]  what    you    will  251 

Enter  Sebastian. 

Seh,    I  am  sorrv,  madam,  I  have  hurt  your  kinsman ; 
But  had  it  been  the  brother  of  my  blood, 
I  must  have  done  no  less  ■vvith  -wit  and  safety. 
You  throw  a  strange  regard  upon  me,  and 
By  that  I  do  perceive  it  hath  offended  you ; 
Pardon  me,  sweet  one,  even  for  the  vows 
We  made  each  ether  but  so  late  ago. 

Duke.    One  face,  one  voice,  one  habit,  and  two  persons ; 
A  natural  perspective,  that  is,   and  is  not. 

Seh.    Antonio  !  0,  my  dear  Antonio, 
How  have  the  hours  racked  and  tortured  me, 
Since  I  have  lost  thee ! 

Ant.    Sebastian  are  you? 

Seh.  Fear'st  thou  that,  Antonio  ? 

Ant.    How  have  you  made  division  of  yom-self?  — 
An  apple,  cleft  in  two,  is  not  more  twin 
Than  these  two  creatures.     Which  is  Sebastian? 

Oil.    Most  wonderful ! 

Seh.    Do  I  stand  there  ?  I  never  had  a  brother ; 
Nor  can  there  be  that  deity  in  my  nature, 
Of  here  and  everywhere.     I  bad  a  sister. 
Whom  the  blind  waves  and  surges  have  devoured :  — 
Of  charity,  what  kin  are  you  to  me  ?  [To  ViOlA. 

What  countryman  ?     AVhat  name  ?     What  parentage  ? 

Vio.    Of  Messalinc :   Sebastian  was  my  father ; 
Such  a  Sebastian  was  my  brother  too. 
So  went  he  suited  to  his  watery  tomb : 
If  spirits  can  assume  both  form  and  suit, 
You  come  to  fright  us. 

Seh.  A  spirit  I  am,  indeed; 

But  am  in  that  dimension  grossly  clad, 
Which  from  the  womb  I  did  participate. 
Were  you  a  woman,  as  the  rest  goes  even, 
I  should  my  tears  let  fall  upon  your  cheek, 
And  say  —  Thrice  welcome,  drowned  Viola  ! 

Vio.    My  father  had  a  mole  upon  his  brow. 

Seh.    And  so  had  mine. 

Vio.    And  died  that  day  when  Viola  from  her  birth 
Had  numbered  thirteen  years. 

Seh.    0,  that  record  is  lively  in  my  soul ! 
He  finished,  indeed,  his  mortal  act, 
That  day  that  made  my  sister  thirteen  years. 

Vio.    If  nothing  lets  to  make  us  happy  both. 
But  this  my  masculine  usurped  attire. 


252  TWELFTH    NIGHT;    OR,  [Aci  V 

Do  not  embrace  me,  till  eacli  circumstance 

Of  place,  time,  fortune,  do  cohere,  anl  jump. 

That  I  am  Viola ;  which  to  confirm, 

I'll  bring  you  to  a  captain  in  this  town, 

Where  lie  my  maiden  weeds ;  by  whose  gentle  help 

I  was  preserved,  to  serve  this  noble  count : 

All  the  occurrence  of  my  fortune  since 

Hath  been  between  this  lady  and  this  lord. 

Seh.    So  comes  it,  lady,  you  have  been  mistook : 

\_To  Olivia 
But  nature  to  her  bias  drew  in  that. 
You  would  have  been  contracted  to  a  maid ; 
Now  are  you  therein,  by  my  life,  deceived; 
You  are  betrothed  both  to  a  maid  and  man. 

Duke.    Be  not  amazed ;  right  noble  is  his  blood. — 
If  this  be  so,  as  yet  the  glass  seems  true, 
I  shall  have  share  in  this  m«st  happy  wreck : 
Boy,  thou  hast  said  to  me  a  thousand  times, 

ITo  Viola 
Thou  never  shouldst  love  woman  like  to  me. 

Vio.    And  all  those  sayings  will  I  overswear ; 
And  all  those  swearings  keep  as  true  in  soul. 
As  doth  that  orbed  continent  the  fire 
That  severs  day  from  night. 

Duke.  Give  me  thy  hand; 

And  let  me  see  thee  in  thy  woman's  weeds. 

Vio.    The  captain,  that  did  bring  me  first  on  shore, 
Hath  my  maid's  garments :  he,  upon  some  action, 
Is  now  in  durance,  at  Malvolio's  suit, 
A  gentleman  and  follower  of  my  lady's. 

OIL    He  shall  enlarge  him  :  —  fetch  Malvolio  hither : 
And  yet,  alas,  now  I  remember  me, 
They  say,  poor  gentleman,  he's  much  distract. 

Re-enter  Clqwn,  with  a  letter. 

A  most  extracting  frenzy  of  mine  own 

From  my  remembrance  clearly  banished  his. — 

How  does  he,  sirrah  ? 

Clo.  Truly,  madam,  he  holds  Beelzebub  at  the  stave's 
end,  as  well  as  a  man  in  his  case  may  do ;  he  has  here 
writ  a  letter  to  you ;  I  should  have  given  it  to  you  to-day 
morning ;  but  as  a  madman's  epistles  are  no  gospels,  so  it 
skills  not  much  when  they  are  delivered. 

Oli.    Open  it,  and  read  it. 

Clo,  Look  then  to  be  well  edified,  when  the  fool  delivers 
the  madman.  —  By  the  Lord,  madam, — 


^ctV,]  what    you    will.  253 

OIL    How  now !  art  thou  mad  ? 

Olo.  No,  madam,  I  do  but  read  madness ;  an  your  lady- 
ship will  have  it  as  it  ought  to  be,  you  must   allow  vox. 

on.    Pr'ythee,  read  i'  thy  right  wits. 

Clo.  So  I  do,  madonna ;  but  to  read  his  right  wits,  is 
to  read  thus :  therefore  perpend,  my  princess,  and  give  ear. 

OIL    Read  it  you,  sirrah.  \_To  Fabian, 

Fah.  [Reads.]  By  the  Lord,  Madam,  you  wrong  me,  and 
the  world  shall  know  it :  though  you  have  ptit  me  into  dark- 
ness, and  given  your  drunken  cousin  rule  over  me,  yet  have 
I  the  benefit  of  my  senses  as  well  as  your  ladyship.  I  have 
your  own  letter  that  induced  me  to  the  semblance  I  put  on  ; 
with  the  which  I  doubt  not  but  to  do  myself  much  right,  or 
you  much  shame.  Think  of  me  as  you  please.  I  leave  my 
duty  a  little  unthought  of,  and  speah  out  of  my  injury. 

The  madly-used  Malvolio. 

Oli.    Did  he  write  this  ? 

Glo.    Ay,  madam. 

Duke.    This  savers  not  much  of  distraction. 

Oli.    See  him  delivered,  Fabian ;  bring  him  hither. 

[Exit  Fabian. 
My  lord,  so  please  you,  these  things  further  thought  on, 
To  think  me  as  well  a  sister  as  a  wife, 
One  day  shall  crown  the  alliance  on't,  so  please  you, 
Here  at  my  house,  and  at  my  proper  cost. 

Duke.  Madam,  I  am  most  apt  to  embrace  your  offer.  — 
Your  master  quits  you  [  To  Viola]  ;  and,  for  your  service 

done  him, 
So  much  against  the  mettle  of  your  sex, 
So  far  beneath  your  soft  and  tender  breeding, 
And  since  you  called  me  master  for  so  long. 
Here  is  my  hand  ;   you  shall  from  this  time  bd 
Your  master's  mistress. 

OIL  A  sister?  —  You  are  she. 

Re-enter  Fabian,  with  Malvolio. 

Duke.    Is  this  the  madman? 

Oli.  Ay,  my  lord,  this  same: 

How  now,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.  Madam,  you  have  done  me  wrong, 

Notorious  wrong. 

OIL  Have  I,  Malvolio?     No. 

Mai.    Lady,  you  have.     Pray  you,  peruse  that  letter: 
You  must  not  now  deny  it  is  your  hand: 
Write  from  it,  if  you  can,  in  hand,  or  phrase ; 
Oi   say  'tis  not  your  seal,  nor  your  invention: 


254  TWELFTH    NIGHT;    OR,  [Aot  7. 

You  can  say  none  of  this :    well,  grant  it  then, 
And  tell  me,  in  the  modesty  of  honor, 
Why  you  have  given  mi  such  clear  lights  of  favor; 
Bade  me  come  smiling,  and  cross-gartered  to  you, 
To  put  on  yellow  stockings,   and  to  frown 
Upon  Sir  Toby,  and  the  lighter  people ; 
And,  acting  this  in  an  obedient  hope, 
"Why  have  you  suffered  me  to  be  imprisoned, 
Kept  in  a  dark  house,  visited  by  the  priest, 
And  made  the  most  notorious  geek,  and  gull, 
That  e'er  invention  played  on  ?     Tell  me  why. 
on.    Alas,  Malvolio,  this  is  not  my  writing, 
Though,  I  confess,  much  like  the  character: 
But,  out  of  question,   'tis  Maria's  hand. 
And  now  I  do  bethink  me,  it  was  she 
First  told  me  thou  wast  mad :  then  cam'st  in  smiling, 
And  in  such  forms  which  here  were  presupposed 
Upon  thee  in  the  letter.     Pr'ythee,  be  content : 
This  practice  hath  most  shrewdly  passed  upon  thee; 
But,  when  we  know  the  grounds  and  authors  of  it. 
Thou  shalt  be  both  the  plaintiff  and  the  judge 
Of  thine  own  cause. 

Fab.  Good  madam,  hear  me  speak; 

And  let  no  quarrel,  nor  no  brawl  to  come. 
Taint  the  condition  of  this  present  hour. 
Which  I  have  wondered  at.     In  hope  it  shall  not. 
Most  freely  I  confess,  myself  and  Toby 
Set  this  device  against  Malvolio  here, 
Upon  some  stubborn  and  uncourteous  parts 
We  had  conceived  against  him :    Maria  writ 
The  letter,  at  Sir  Toby's  great  importance ; 
In  recompense  whereof,  he  hath  married  her. 
How  with  a  sportful  malice  it  was  followed. 
May  rather  pluck  on  laughter  than  revenge ; 
If  that  the  injuries  be  justly  weighed, 
That  have  on  both  sides  passed. 

Oli.  Alas,  poor  fool!  how"  have  they  baffled  theel 
do.  Why,  some  are  horn  great,  some  achieve  greatness, 
and  some  liave  greatness  tlirown  upon  them.  I  was  one,  sir, 
in  this  interlude  ;  one  Sir  Topad,  sir  ;  but  that's  all  one :  — 
By  the  Lord,  fool,  I  am  not  mad.  —  But  do  you  remember  ? 
Madam,  why  laugh  you  at  such  a  barren  rascal  ?  An  you 
smile  not,  he's  gagged:  And  thus  the  whirligig  of  Time 
brings  in  his  revenges. 

3Ial.    I'll  be  revenged  on  the  whole  pack  of  you.    [^Exif 
OIL    He  hath  been  most  notoriously  abused. 


Act  v.]  W  II  AT  YOU  WILL.  255 

Duke.    Pursue  liim,  and  entreat  him  to  a  peace :  — 
He  hath  not  told  us  of  the  captain  yet ; 
When  that  is  known,  and  golden  time  convents, 
A  solemn  combination  shall  be  made 
Of  our  dear  souls.  —  Mean  time,  sweet  sister. 
We  will  not  part  from  hence.  —  Cesario,  come; 
For  so  you  shall  be,  while  you  are  a  man ; 
But,  when  in  other  habits  you  are  seen, 
Orsino's  mistress,  and  his  fancy's  queen.  \_JExeunt 


SONG. 

Clo.  When  that  I  was  and  a  little  tiny  boy, 
With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 
A  foolish  thing  was  but  a  toy, 

For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

But  when  I  came  to  man's  estate. 

With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

'Gainst  knaves  and  thieves  men  shut  their  gate, 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  daj. 

But  when  I  came,  alas  !  to  wive, 

With  hey,  ho,  the  vfind  and  the  rain, 

By  swaggering  could  I  never  thrive, 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

But  when  I  came  unto  my  bed. 

With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

With  toss-pots  still  had  drunken  head. 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

A  great  while  ago  the  world  begun. 
With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain ; 

But  that's  all  one,  our  play  is  done. 

And  we'll  strive  to  please  you  every  day.    [^Ezit. 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


Vol.  I.— 17  257 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

ViNOENTio,  Duke  of  Vienna. 

Angelo,   Lord  Deputy  in  the  Duke's  absence. 

EsCALTJS,  an  ancient   Lord,  joined  with  Angelo  in 

the  Deputation. 
Claudio,  a  young  Gentleman. 
Liicio,  a  Fantastic. 
Two  other  like  Gentlemen. 
Varrius,  a   Gentleman,  Servant  to  the  Duke 
Provost. 

T,     '     ' '  t  two  Friars. 
Peter,     I 

A  Justice. 

Elbow,  a  simple  Constable. 

Proth,  a  foolish    Gentleman 

Clown,   Servant  to  Mrs.  Over-done. 

Abhorson,  an  Executioner. 

Barnardine,  a  dissolute  Prisoner. 

Isabella,  Sister  to  Claudio. 
Mariana,  betrothed  to  Angelo 
Juliet,  beloved  by  Claudio. 
Francisca,  a  JVun. 
Mistress  Over-done,  a.  Baiod. 

Jjords,   Gentlemen,  Guards,   Officers    and  other 
Attendants. 

SCENE.     Vienna. 

(S58) 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


ACT    I. 

SCENE  I.     An  Apartment  in  the  Duke's  Palace^ 
Enter  Duke,  Escalus,  Lords,  and  Attendants. 

Buhe.   Escalus, — 

Escal.    My  lord. 

Duke.    Of  government  the  properties  to  unfold. 
Would  seem  in  me  to  affect  speech  and  discourse; 
Since  I  am  put  to  know,  that  your  own  science 
Exceeds,  in  that,  the  lists  of  all  advice 
My  strength  can  give  you:  then  no  more  remains, 
But  that  to  your  sufficiency,  as  your  worth  is  able, 
And  let  them  work.     The  nature  of  our  people, 
Our  city's  institutions,  and  the  terms 
For  common  justice,  you  are  as  pregnant  in, 
As  art  and  practice  hath  enriched  any 
That  we  remember :   there  is  our  commission. 
From  which  we  would  not  have  you  warp.  —  Call  hither, 
I  say,  bid  come  before  us,  Angelo. —    \Exit  an  Attendani 
What  figure  of  us  think  you  he  will  bear? 
For  you  must  know,  we  have  with  special  soul 
Elected  him  our  absence  to  supply ; 
Lent  him  our  terror,  dressed  him  with  our  love ; 
And  given  his  deputation  all  the  organs 
Of  our  own  power :  what  think  you  of  it  ? 

Escal.    If  any  in  Vienna  be  of  worth 
To  undergo  such  ample  grace  and  honor. 
It  is  lord  Angelo. 

Enter  Angelo. 

Duke.  Look,  where  he  comes. 

Ang.    Always  obedient  to  your  grace's  will, 
I  come  to  know  your  pleasure. 

Duke.  Angelo, 

There  is  a  kind  of  character  in  thy  life, 

(259) 


260  MEASURE   FOE   MEASURE.        [Act! 

That,  to  the  observer,   doth  thy  history 

Fully  unfold :  thyself  and  thy  belongings 

Are  not  thine  own  so  proper,  as  to  waste 

Thyself  upon  thy  virtues,  them  on  thee. 

Heaven  doth  with  us,  as  we  with  torches  do ; 

Not  light  them  for  themselves:  for  if  our  virtues 

Did  not  go  forth  of  us,  'twere  all  alike 

As  if  we  had  them  not.     Spirits  are  not  finely  touched, 

But  to  fine  issues :  nor  nature  never  lends 

The  smallest  scruple  of  her  excellence. 

But  like  a  thrifty  goddess,  she  determines 

Herself  the  glory  of  a  creditor. 

Both  thanks  and  use.     But  I  do  bend  my  speech 

To  one  that  can  my  part  in  him  advertise : 

Hold,  therefore.  —  Angelo, 

In  our  remove,  be  thou  at  full  ourself; 

Mortality  and  mercy  in  Vienna 

Live  in  thy  tongue  and  heart :   old  Escalus, 

Though  first  in  question,  is  thy  secondary : 

Take  thy  commission. 

Ang.  Now,  good  my  lord, 

Let  there  be  some  more  test  made  of  my  metal, 
Before  so  noble  and  so  great  a  figure 
Be  stamped  upon  it. 

Duke.  No  more  evasion  : 

We  have  with  a  leavened  and  prepared  choice 
Proceeded  to  you ;  therefore  take  your  honors. 
Our  haste  from  hence  is  of  so  quick  condition, 
That  it  prefers  itself,  and  leaves  unquestioned 
Matters  of  needful  value.     We  shall  write  to  you, 
As  time  and  our  concernings  shall  importune, 
How  it  goes  with  us ;  and  do  look  to  know 
What  doth  befall  you  here.     So,  fare  you  well. 
To  the  hopeful  execution  do  I  leave  you 
Of  your  commissions. 

Ang.  Yet,  give  leave,  my  lord, 

That  we  may  bring  you  something  on  the  way. 

Duke.    My  haste  may  not  admit  it; 
Nor  need  you,  on  mine  honor,  have  to  do 
With  any  scruple :  your  scope  is  as  mine  own ; 
So  to  enforce  or  qualify  the  laws. 
As  to  your  soul  seems  good.     Give  me  your  hand , 
I'll  privily  away ;  I  love  the  people. 
But  do  not  like  to  stage  me  to  their  eyes; 
Though  it  do  well,  I  do  not  relish  well 
Their  loud  applause,  and  ave&  vehement ; 


Act!.]   MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.     261 

Nor  do  I  think  the  man  of  safe  discretion, 
That  docs  affect  it.     Once  more,  fare  you  well. 

Ang.    The  heavens  give  safety  to  your  purposes ! 

Escal.    Lead  forth,  and  bring  you  back  in  happiness. 

Duke.    I  thank  you:  fare  you  well  [Exit 

Escal.    I  shall  desire  you,  sir,  to  give  me  leave 
To  have  free  speech  with  you;  and  it  concerns  me 
To  look  into  the  bottom  of  my  place : 
A  power  I  have ;  but  of  what  strength  and  nature 
I  am  not  yet  instructed. 

Ang.    'Tis  so  with  me:  —  let  us  withdraw  together, 
And  we  may  soon  our  satisfaction  have 
Touching  that  point. 

Escal.  I'll  wait  upon  your  honor. 

[Exeunt 

SCENE  11.     A  Street. 
Enter  Lucio  and  two  Gentlemen. 

Lucio.  If  the  duke,  with  the  other  dukes,  come  not  to 
composition  with  the  king  of  Hungary,  why,  then,  all  the 
dukes  fall  upon  the  king. 

1  G-ent.  Heaven  grant  us  its  peace,  but  not  the  king  of 
Hungary's ! 

2  Gent.    Amen. 

Lucio.  Thou  concludest  like  the  sanctimonious  pirate, 
that  went  to  sea  with  the  ten  commandments,  but  scraped 
one  out  of  the  table, 

2  Q-ent.    Thou  shalt  not  steal  ? 

Lucio.    Ay,  that  he  razed. 

1  G-ent.  Why,  'twas  a  commandment  to  command  the 
captain  and  all  the  rest  from  their  functions ;  they  put  forth 
to  steal :  there's  not  a  soldier  of  us  all,  that,  in  the  thanks- 
giving before  meat,  doth  relish  the  petition  well  that  prays 
for  peace. 

2  Gent.    I  never  heard  any  soldier  dislike  it. 

Lucio.  I  believe  thee ;  for  I  think,  thou  never  wast  where 
grace  was  said. 

2  Gent.    No  ?  a  dozen  times  at  least. 

1  Gent.    What  ?  in  metre  ? 

Lucio.    In  any  proportion,  or  in  any  language. 

1  Gent.    I  think,  or  in  any  religion. 

Lucio.  Ay !  why  not  ?  Grace  is  grace,  despite  of  all 
controversy :  as  for  example ;  thou  thyself  art  a  wicked 
villain,  despite  of  all  grace. 

1  Gent.    Well,  there  m  ent  but  a  pair  of  shears  between  us. 


262  MEASURE    i^^OR   MEASURE.        [Act  1 

Lucio.  I  grant ;  as  there  may  between  the  lists  and  the 
velvet :  thou  art  the  list. 

1  Gent.  And  thou  the  velvet :  thou  art  good  velvet ; 
thou  art  a  three-piled  piece,  I  warrant  thee :  I  had  as  lief 
be  a  list  of  an  English  kersey,  as  be  piled,  as  thou  art  piled, 
for  a  French  velvet.     Do  I  speak  feelingly  now  ? 

Lucio.  I  think  thou  dost ;  and,  indeed,  with  most  painful 
feeling  of  thy  speech :  I  will,  out  of  thine  own  confession, 
learn  to  begin  thy  health ;  but,  whilst  I  live,  forget  to  drink 
after  thee. 

1  G-e7it.    I  think  I  have  done  myself  wrong ;  have  I  not  ? 

2  Gent.  Yes,  that  thou  hast ;  whether  thou  art  tainted 
or  free. 

Lucio.  Behold,  behold,  where  madam  Mitigation  comes  ! 
I  have  purchased  as  many  diseases  under  her  roof,  a" 
come  to — 

2  Gent.    To  what,  I  pray? 

1  Gent.    Judge. 

2  Gent.    To  three  thousand  dollars  a-year. 
1  Gent.    Ay,  and  more. 

Lucio.    A  French  crown  more. 

1  Gent.  Thou  art  always  figuring  diseases  in  me ;  but 
thou  art  full  of  error :   I  am  sound. 

Lucio.  Nay,  not  as  one  would  say,  healthy ;  but  so  sound, 
as  things  that  are  hollow ;  thy  bones  are  hollow :  impiety 
has  made  a  feast  of  thee. 

Enter  Bawd. 

1  Gent.  How  now  ?  Which  of  your  hips  has  the  most 
profound  sciatica  ? 

Bawd.  Well,  well ;  there's  one  yonder  arrested,  and  car- 
ried to  prison,  was  worth  five  thousand  of  you  all. 

1  Gent.    Who's  that,  I  pray  thee  ? 

Bawd.    Marry,  sir,  that's  Claudio,  seignior  Claudio. 

1  Geyit.    Claudio  to  prisen !     'Tis  not  so. 

Batvd.  Nay,  but  I  know  'tis  so ;  I  saw  him  arrested : 
saw  him  carried  aw^ay ;  and,  which  is  more,  within  these  three 
days  his  head's  to  be  chopped  olf. 

Lucio.  But,  after  all  this  fooling,  I  would  not  have  it  so : 
art  thou  sure  of  this  ? 

Bawd.  I  am  too  sure  of  it ;  and  it  is  for  getting  madam 
Julietta  with  child. 

Lucio.  Believe  me,  this  may  be  :  he  promised  to  meet  me 
two  hours  since ;  and  he  was  ever  precise  in  promise-keeping. 

2  Gent.  Besides,  you  know,  it  draws  something  near  to 
the  speech  we  had  to  such  a  purpose. 


ActL]        measure    for    measure.  263 

1  Gent.  But  most  of  all,  agreeing  with  the  proclamation. 

Lucio.    Away ;   let's  go  learn  the  truth  of  it. 

[^Exeunt  Lucio  and  Gentlemen 

Bawd.  Thus,  what  with  the  war,  what  with  the  sweat, 
what  with  the  gallows,  and  what  with  poverty,  I  am  custom 
shrunk.     How  now  ?     What's  the  news  with  you  ? 

Enter  Clown. 

Glo.    Yonder  man  is  carried  to  prison. 

Bawd.    Well;   what  has  he  done? 

Clo.    A  woman. 

Bawd.    But  what's  his  offence  ? 

Olo.    Groping  for  trouts  in  a  peculiar  river. 

Bawd.    What,  is  there  a  maid  with  child  by  him? 

Olo.  No ;  but  there's  a  woman  with  maid  by  him :  you 
have  not  heard  of  the  proclamation,  have  you? 

Bawd.    What  proclamation,  man  ? 

Olo.  All  houses  in  the  suburbs  of  Vienna  must  be  plucked 
down. 

Bawd.    And  what  shall  become  of  those  in  the  city? 

Olo.  They  shall  stand  for  seed  :  they  had  gone  down  too, 
but  that  a  wise  burgher  put  in  for  them. 

Bazvd.  But  shall  all  our  houses  of  resort  in  the  suburbs 
be  pulled  down  ? 

Olo.    To  the  ground,  mistress. 

Bazvd.  Why,  here's  a  change,  indeed,  in  the  common- 
wealth !     What  shall  become  of  me  ? 

Olo.  Come,  fear  not  you  ;  good  counsellors  lack  no  clients ; 
though  you  change  your  place,  you  need  not  change  your 
trade ;  I'll  be  your  tapster  still.  Courage ;  there  will  be 
pity  taken  on  you :  you  that  have  worn  your  eyes  almost 
out  in  the  service,  you  will  be  considered. 

Bawd.  What's  to  do  here,  Thomas  Tapster  ?  Let's  with- 
draw. 

Olo.  Here  comes  seignior  Claudio,  led  by  the  provost  to 
prison;  and  there's  madam  Juliet.  [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.     The  same. 

Enter  Provost,  Claudio,  Juliet,  and  Officers :  Lucio  and 
two  Gentlemen. 

Claud.  Fellow,  why  dost  thou  show  me  thus  to  the  world  ? 
Sear  me  to  prison,  where  I  am  committed. 

Prov.    I  do  it  not  in  evil  disposition, 
But  from  lord  Angelo  by  special  charge. 


264  MEASURE   FOR    MEASURE.        [Act  I. 

Claud.    Thus  can  the  demi-god,  Authority, 
Make  us  pay  down  for  our  offence  by  weight. — 
The  words  of  Heaven ;  —  on  whom  it  will,  it  will ; 
On  whom  it  will  not,  so ;  yet  still  'tis  just. 

Lucio.  Why,  how  now,  Claudio  ?  Whence  comes  this 
restraint  ? 

Claud.    From  too  much  liberty,  my  Lucio,  liberty; 
As  surfeit  is  the  father  of  much  fast, 
So  every  scope  by  the  immoderate  use 
Turns  to  restraint :  our  natures  do  pursue 
(Like  rats  that  ravin  down  their  proper  bane) 
A  thirsty  evil ;  and  when  we  drink,  we  die. 

Lucio.  If  I  could  speak  so  wisely  under  an  arrest,  I  would 
send  for  certain  of  my  creditors :  and  yet,  to  say  the  truth, 
I  had  as  lief  have  the  foppery  of  freedom,  as  the  morality 
of  imprisonment.     What's  thy  offence,   Claudio  ? 

Claud.    What,  but  to  speak  of,  would  offend  again. 

Lucio.    What  is  it  ?     Murder  ? 

Claud.   No. 

Lucio.    Lechery  ? 

Claud.    Call  it  so. 

Prov.    Away,  sir ;  you  must  go. 

Claud.    One  word,  good  friend : — Lucio,  a  word  with  you. 

\_Talces  him  aside. 

Lucio.    A  hundred,  if  they'll  do  you  any  good. — 
Is  lechery  so  looked  after? 

Claud.    Thus  stands  it  with  me  :  —  upon  a  true  contract, 
I  got  possession  of  Julietta's  bed ; 
You  know  the  lady;  she  is  fast  my  wife, 
Save  that  we  do  the  denunciation  lack 
Of  outward  order:  this  we  came  not  to, 
Only  for  propagation  of  a  dower 
Remaining  in  the  coffer  of  her  friends ; 
From  whom  we  thought  it  meet  to  hide  our  love, 
Till  time  had  made  them  for  us.     But  it  chances, 
The  stealth  of  our  most  mutual  entertainment, 
With  character  too  gross,  is  writ  on  Juliet. 

Lucio.    With  child,  perhaps? 

Claud.    Unhappily,  even  so. 
And  the  new  deputy  now  for  the  duke, — 
Whether  it  be  the  fault  and  glimpse  of  newness; 
Or  whether  that  the  body  public  be 
A  horse  whereon  the  governor  doth  ride, 
Who,  newly  in  the  seat,  that  it  may  know 
He  can  command,  lets  it  straight  feel  the  spur: 
Whether  the  tyranny  be  in  his  place. 


Act  I.]       MEASURE    FOU   MEASURE.  C65 

Or  in  his  eminence  that  fills  it  up, 

I  stagger  in:  —  but  this  new  governor 

Awakes  me  all  the  enrolled  penalties, 

Which  have,  like  unscoured  armor,  hung  by  the  wall 

So  long,  that  nineteen  zodiacs  have  gone  round, 

And  none  of  them  been  worn ;  and,  for  a  name, 

Kow  puts  the  drowsy  and  neglected  act 

Freshly  on  me :  — 'tis  surely  for  a  name. 

Lucio.  I  warrant,  it  is :  and  thy  head  stands  so  tickle 
on  thy  shoulders,  that  a  milk-maid,  if  she  be  in  love,  may 
sigh  it  off.     Send  after  the  duke,  and  appeal  to  him. 

Claud.    I  have  done  so,  but  he's  not  to  be  found. 
I  pr'ythee,  Lucio,  do  me  this  kind  service : 
This  day  my  sister  should  the  cloister  enter, 
And  there  receive  her  approbation : 
Acquaint  her  with  the  danger  of  my  state ; 
Implore  her,  in  my  voice,  that  she  make  friends 
To  the  strict  deputy ;  bid  herself  assay  him ; 
I  have  great  hope  in  that ;  for  in  her  youth 
There  is  a  prone  and  speechless  dialect. 
Such  as  moves  men ;  besides,  she  hath  prosperous  art 
When  she  will  play  with  reason  and  discourse, 
And  well  she  can  persuade. 

Lucio.  I  pray,  she  may ;  as  well  for  the  encouragement 
of  the  like,  which  else  would  stand  under  grievous  impo- 
sition, as  for  the  enjoying  of  thy  life,  who  I  would  be  sorry 
should  be  thus  foolishly  lost  at  a  game  of  tick-tack.  I'll 
to  her. 

Claud.    I  thank  you,  good  friend  Lucio. 

Lucio.    Within  two  hours, 

Claud.    Come,  officer,  away.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.     A  Monastery. 

Enter  Duke  and  Friar  Thomas. 

Luke.    No ;  holy  father ;  throw  away  that  thought ; 
Believe  not  that  the  dribbling  dart  of  love 
Can  pierce  a  complete  bosom :  why  I  desire  thee 
To  give  me  secret  harbor,   hath  a  purpose 
More  grave  and  wrinkled  than  the  aims  and  ends 
Of  burning  youth. 

Fri.  May  your  grace  speak  of  it  ? 

Luke.    My  holy  sir,  none  better  knows  than  you, 
How  I  have  ever  loved  the  life  removed  ; 
And  held  in  idle  price  to  haunt  assemblies, 

X 


266  MEASURE    FOR   MEASURE.        [Acr  L 

Where  youth,  and  cost,  and  -witless  bravery  keeps. 

I  have  delivered  to  lord  Angelo 

(A  man  of  stricture  and  firm  abstinence) 

My  absolute  power  and  place  here  in  Vienna, 

And  he  supposes  me  travelled  to  Poland ; 

For  so  I  have  strewed  it  in  the  common  ear, 

And  so  it  is  received :  now,  pious  sir. 

You  will  demand  of  me,  why  I  do  this? 

Fri.    Gladly,  my  lord. 

Duke.    We  have  strict  statutes  and  most  biting  laws, 
(The  needful  bits  and  curbs  for  headstrong  steeds,) 
Which  for  these  fourteen  years  we  have  let  sleep ; 
Even  like  an  o'ergrown  lion  in  a  cave, 
That  goes  not  out  to  prey :   now,  as  fond  fathers, 
Having  bound  up  the  threatening  twigs  of  bircli, 
Only  to  stick  it  in  their  children's  sight. 
For  terror,  not  to  use ;  in  time  the  rod 
Becomes  more  mocked  than  feared:  so  our  decrees, 
Dead  to  infliction,  to  themselves  are  dead; 
And  liberty  plucks  justice  by  the  nose ; 
The  baby  beats  the  nurse,  and  quite  athwart 
Goes  all  decorum. 

Fri.  It  rested  in  your  grace 

To  unloose  this  tied-up  justice  when  you  pleased; 
And  it  in  you  more  dreadful  would  have  seemed, 
Than  in  lord  Angelo. 

Duke.  I  do  fear,  too  dreadful: 

Sith  'twas  my  fault  to  give  the  people  scope, 
'Twould  be  my  tyranny  to  strike,  and  gall  them 
For  what  I  bid  them  do ;  for  we  bid  this  be  done, 
When  evil  deeds  have  their  permissive  pass. 
And  not  the  punishment.     Therefore,  indeed,  my  father, 
I  have  on  Angelo  imposed  the  ofl&ce ; 
Who  may,  in  the  ambush  of  my  name,  strike  home, 
And  yet  my  nature  never  in  the  sight, 
To  do  it  slander  :  and  to  behold  his  sway. 
I  will,  as  'twere  a  brother  of  your  order. 
Visit  both  prince  and  people :  therefore,  I  pr'ythee, 
Supply  me  with  the  habit,  and  instruct  me 
How  I  may  formally  in  person  bear  me 
Like  a  true  friar.     More  reasons  for  this  action, 
At  our  more  leisure,  shall  I  render  you ; 
Only,  this  one  :  —  lord  Angelo  is  precise ; 
Stands  at  a  guard  with  envy ;  scarce  confesses 
That  his  blood  flows,  or  that  his  appetite 
Is  more  to  bread  than  stone :  hence  shall  we  see. 
If  power  change  purpose,  what  our  seemers  be.      [FJxeunt. 


Act  I,]         MEASURE   FOR   MEASURE.  267 

SCENE  V.     A  Nunnery. 
Enter  Isabella  and  Francisca. 

Isah.    And  have  you  nuns  no  further  privileges 't 

Fran.    Are  not  these  large  enough  ? 

Isah.    Yes,  truly ;  I  speak  not  as  desiring  more ; 
But  rather  •wishing  a  more  strict  restraint 
Upon  the  sisterhood,  the  votarists  of  Saint  Claro. 

Lucio.    Ho  !     Peace  be  in  this  place  !  [  Within. 

Isah.  Who's  that  which  calls? 

Fran.    It  is  a  man's  voice :  gentle  Isabella, 
Turn  you  the  key,  and  know  his  business  of  him ; 
You  may,  I  may  not ;  you  are  yet  unsworn : 
When  you  have  vowed,  you  must  not  speak  with  men. 
But  in  the  presence  of  the  prioress : 
Then,  if  you  speak,  you  must  not  show  your  face ; 
Or,  if  you  show  your  face,  you  must  not  speak. 
He  calls  again ;  I  pray  you,  answer  him.  [^Exit  Francisca. 

Isah.    Peace  and  prosperity !     Who  is't  that  calls  ? 

Enter  Lucio. 

Lucio.    Hail,  virgin,  if  you  be ;  as  those  cheek-roses 
Proclaim  you  are  no  less !     Can  you  so  stead  me, 
As  bring  me  to  the  sight  of  Isabella, 
A  novice  of  this  place,   and  the  fair  sister 
To  her  unhappy  brother  Claudio  ? 

Isah.    Why  her  unhappy  brother  ?  let  me  ask ; 
The  rather,  for  I  now  must  make  you  know 
I  am  that  Isabella,  and  his  sister. 

Lucio.    Gentle  and  fair,  your  brother  kindly  greets  you : 
Not  to  be  weary  with  you,  he's  in  prison. 

Isah.    Woe  me  !     For  what  ? 

Lucio.    For  that,  which,  if  myself  might  be  his  judge, 
He  should  receive  his  punishment  in  thanks : 
He  hath  got  his  friend  with  child. 

Isah.    Sir,  make  me  not  your  story. 

Lucio.  It  is  true 

I  would  not,  —  though  'tis  my  familiar  sin 
With  maids  to  seem  the  lapwing,  and  to  jest. 
Tongue  far  from  heart,  —  play  with  all  virgins  so: 
I  hold  you  as  a  thing  enskied,  and  sainted ; 
By  your  renouncement,  an  immortal  spirit; 
And  to  be  talked  with  in  sincerity, 
As  with  a  saint. 

Isah.   You  do  blaspheme  the  good,  in  mocking  me 


268  MEASURE   FOli   MEASURE.        [Act  I 

Lucio.    Do  not  believe  it.     Fewness  and  truth,  'tis  thus : 
Your  brother  and  his  lover  have  embraced  • 
As  those  that  feed  grow  full ;  as  blossoming  time, 
That  from  the  sccdness  the  bare  fallow  bring 
To  teeming  foison  ;  even  so  her  plenteous  womb 
Expresseth  his  full  tilth  and  husbandry. 

Isab.    Some  one  with  child  by  him?  —  My  cousin  Juliet? 

Lucio.    Is  she  your  cousin  ? 

Isab.    Adoptedly;    as  school-maids  change  their  names. 
By  vain  though  apt  aifection. 

Lucio.  She  it  is. 

Isah.    0  let  him  marry  her ! 

Lucio.  This  is  the  point. 

The  duke  is  very  strangely  gone  from  hence; 
Bore  many  gentlemen,  myself  being  one, 
In  hand,  and  hope  of  action :  but  we  do  learn 
By  those  that  know  the  very  nerves  of  state, 
His  givings  out  were  of  an  infinite  distance 
From  his  true-meant  design.     Upon  his  place, 
And  with  full  line  of  his  authority. 
Governs  lord  Angelo ;  a  man  whose  blood 
Is  very  snow-broth ;  one  who  never  feels 
The  wanton  stings  and  motions  of  the  sense ; 
But  doth  rebate  and  blunt  his  natural  edge 
With  profits  of  the  mind,  study  and  fast. 
He  (to  give  fear  to  use  and  liberty, 
Which  have,  for  long,  run  by  the  hideous  law, 
As  mice  by  lions)  hath  picked  out  an  act. 
Under  whose  heavy  sense  your  brother's  life 
Falls  into  forfeit :  he  arrests  him  on  it ; 
And  follows  close  the  rigor  of  the  statute. 
To  make  him  an  example  :  all  hope  is  gone. 
Unless  you  have  the  grace  by  your  fair  prayer 
To  soften  Angelo :  and  that's  my  pith 
Of  business  'twixt  you  and  your  poor  brother. 

Isah.    Doth  he  so  seek  his  life  ? 

Lucio.  Has  censured  him 

Already ;  and,  as  I  hear,  the  provost  hath 
A  warrant  for  his  execution. 

Isah.    Alas !     What  poor  ability's  in  me 
To  do  him  good  ? 

Lucio.  Assay  the  power  you  have. 

Isah.    My  power  !     Alas  !  I  doubt, — 

Lucio.  Our  doubts  are  traitors, 

And  make  us  lose  the  good  we  oft  might  win, 
By  fearing  to  attempt  •  go  to  lord  Angelo, 


AcTlL]      MEASURE    FOR    MEASURE.  269 

And  let  him  learn  to  know  when  maidens  sue, 
Men  give  like  gods ;  hut  when  they  weep  and  kneel, 
All  their  petitions  are  as  freely  theirs 
As  they  themselves  would  owe  them. 

Isah.    I'll  see  what  I  can  do. 

Lucio.  But  speedily. 

Isah.    I  will  about  it  straight ; 
No  longer  staying  but  to  give  the  mother 
Notice  of  my  affair.     I  humbly  thank  you: 
Commend  me  to  my  brother :  soon  at  night 
I'll  send  him  certain  word  of  my  success. 

Iaicio.    I  take  my  leave  of  you. 

Isah.  Good  sir,  adieu. 

[ExeuTit 


ACT    II. 

SCENE  I.     A  Eall  in  Angelo's  Eouse. 

Enter  Angelo,  Escalus,  a  Justice,  Provost,  OfiScers, 
and  other  Attendants. 

Aug.    We  must  not  make  a  scarcecrow  of  the  law, 
Setting  it  up  to  fear  the  birds  of  prey, 
And  let  it  keep  one  shape,  till  custom  make  it 
Their  perch,  and  not  their  terror. 

Escal.  Ay,  but  yet 

Let  us  be  keen,  and  rather  cut  a  little. 
Than  fall,  and  bruise  to  death :  alas !  this  gentleman, 
Whom  I  would  save,  had  a  most  noble  father. 
Let  but  your  honor  know, 
(Whom  I  believe  to  be  most  strait  in  virtue,) 
That,  in  the  working  of  your  own  affections, 
Had  time  cohered  with  place,  or  place  with  wishing. 
Or  that  the  resolute  acting  of  your  blood 
Could  have  attained  the  effect  of  your  own  purpose, 
Whether  you  had  not  some  time  in  your  life 
Erred  in  this  point  which  now  you  censure  him. 
And  pulled  the  law  upon  you. 

Ang.    'Tis  one  thing  to  be  tempted,  Escalus, 
Another  thing  to  fall.     I  not  deny. 
The  jury,  passing  on  the  prisoner's  life, 
May,  in  the  sworn  twelve,  have  a  thief  or  two 
Guiltier  than  him  they  try ;  what's  open  made  to  justice, 
That  justice  seizes.     What  know  the  laws, 


270  MEASUllE   FOU   MEASUKE.      [Act  II 

That  thieves  do  pass  on  thieves?     'Tis  very  pregnant, 

The  jewel  that  we  find,  we  stoop  and  take  it, 

Because  we  see  it ;  but  what  we  do  not  see, 

We  tread  upon,  and  never  tliink  of  it. 

You  may  not  so  extenuate  his  offence, 

For  I  have  had  sucli  faults ;  but  rather  tell  me, 

When  I,  that  censure  him,  do  so  offend. 

Let  mine  own  judgment  pattern  out  my  death, 

And  nothing  come  in  partial.     Sir,  he  must  die. 

Escal.    Be  it  as  your  wisdom  will. 

Aug.  Where  is  the  provost? 

Prov.    Here,  if  it  like  your  honor. 

Aiig.  See  that  Claudio 

Be  executed  by  nine  to-morrow  morning : 
Bring  him  his  confessor,  let  him  be  prepared ; 
For  that's  the  utmost  of  his  pilgrimage.     [_JSxit  Provost. 

Escal.    Well,  Heaven  forgive  him ;  and  forgive  us  all ! 
Some  rise  by  sin,  and  some  by  virtue  fall: 
Some  run  from  brakes  of  vice,  and  answer  none ; 
And  some  condemned  for  a  fault  alone. 

JEnter  Elboav,  Froth,  Clown,  Officers,  &c. 

Ulb.  Come,  bring  them  away ;  if  these  be  good  people 
m  a  commonw^eal,  that  do  nothing  but  use  their  abuses  in 
common  houses,  I  know  no  law ;  bring  them  away. 

Anr/.  How  now,  sir  !  What's  your  name  ?  And  what's 
the  matter  ? 

Ulh.  If  it  please  your  honor,  I  am  the  poor  duke's  con- 
stable, and  my  name  is  Elbow ;  I  do  lean  upon  justice,  sir, 
and  do  bring  in  here  before  your  good  honor  two  notorious 
benefactors. 

Ang.  Benefactors  !  Well ;  what  benefactors  are  tkey  ? 
are  they  not  malefactors? 

Elh.  If  it  please  your  honor,  I  know  not  well  what  they 
are:  but  precise  villains  they  are,  that  I  am  sure  of;  and 
void  of  all  profanation  in  the  world,  that  good  Christians 
ought  to  have. 

Escal.    This  comes  off  well ;  here's  a  wise  officer. 

Ang.  Go  to  :  what  quality  are  they  of  ?  Elbow  is  your 
name  ?     Why  dost  thou  not  speak.  Elbow  ? 

Glo.    He  cannot,  sir ;  he's  out  at  elbow. 

Ang.    What  are  you,  sir? 

Elh.    He,  sir?     A  tapster,  sir;    parcel-bawd;   one  that 
serves  a  bad  woman ;  whose  house,  sir,  was,  as  they  say, 
plucked  down  in  the  suburbs ;  and  now  she  professes  a  hot 
house,  which,  I  think,  is  a  very  ill  house  too. 


AciIL]      MEASUEE    FOR    MEASURE.  271 

fiscal.    How  know  you  that  ? 

£lb.  My  wife,  sir,  whom  I  detest  before  heaven  and 
your  honor, — 

Escal.    How !  thy  wife  ? 

Elb.  Ay,  sir ;  whom,  I  thank  Heaven,  is  an  honest  wo- 
man,— - 

Escal.    Dost  thou  detest  her  therefore  ? 

Elb.  I  say,  sir,  I  will  detest  myself  also,  as  well  as  she, 
that  this  house,  if  it  be  not  a  bawd's  house,  it  is  pity  of 
her  life,  for  it  is  a  naughty  house. 

Escal.    How  dost  thou  know  that,  constable  ? 

Elb.  Marry,  sir,  by  my  wife ;  who,  if  she  had  been  a  woman 
cardinally  given,  might  have  been  accused  in  fornication, 
adultery,  and  all  uncleanliness  there. 

Escal.    By  the  woman's  means  ? 

Elb.  Ay,  sir,  by  mistress  Over-done's  means :  but  as  she 
spit  in  his  face,  so  she  defied  him. 

Clo.    Sir,  if  it  please  your  honor,  this  is  not  so. 

Elb.  Prove  it  before  these  varlets  here,  thou  honorable 
man ;  prove  it. 

Escal.    Do  you  hear  how  he  misplaces ?        [To  Angelo. 

Clo.  Sir,  she  came  in  great  with  child ;  and  longing 
(saving  your  honor's  reverence)  for  stewed  prunes :  sir,  we 
had  but  two  in  the  house,  T.'hich  at  that  very  distant  time 
stood,  as  it  were,  in  a  fruit-dish,  a  dish  of  some  three  pence ; 
your  honors  have  seen  such  dishes  ;  they  are  not  China 
dishes,  but  very  good  dishes. 

Escal.  Go  to,  go  to :  no  matter  for  the  dish,  sir. 

Clo.  No  indeed,  sir,  not  of  a  pin ;  you  are  therein  in  the 
right:  but  to  the  point.  As  I  say,  this  mistress  Elbow, 
being,  as  I  say,  with  child,  and  being  great  bellied,  and 
longing,  as  I  said,  for  prunes ;  and  having  but  two  in  a  dish, 
as  I  said,  master  Froth  here,  this  very  man,  having  eaten 
the  rest,  as  I  said,  and,  as  I  say,  paying  for  them  very  hon- 
estly ;  —  for,  as  you  know,  master  Froth,  I  could  not  give 
you  three  pence  again. 

Froth.    No,  indeed. 

Clo.  Very  well :  you  being  then,  if  you  be  remembered, 
cracking  the  stones  of  the  aforesaid  prunes. 

Froth.    Ay,  so  I  did,  indeed. 

Clo.  Why,  very  well :  I  telling  you  then,  if  you  be  remem- 
bered, that  such  a  one,  and  such  a  one,  were  past  cure  of 
the  tiling  you  wot  of,  unless  they  kept  very  good  diet,  as  I 
told  you. 

Froth.    All  this  is  true. 

Clo.    Why,  very  well  then. 


272  MEASURE    FOR    MEASURE.      [Act  IL 

JEscal.  Come,  you  are  a  tedious  fool :  to  the  purpose.— 
What  was  done  to  Elbow's  wife,  that  he  hath  cause  to  com- 
plain of?     Come  we  to  what  was  done  to  her. 

Glo.    Sir,  your  honor  cannot  come  to  that  yet. 

Escal.    No,  sir,  nor  I  mean  it  not. 

Clo.  Sir,  but  you  shall  come  to  it,  by  your  honor's  leave : 
and,  I  beseech  you,  look  into  master  Froth  here,  sir  ;  a  man 
of  fourscore  pound  a  year ;  whose  father  died  at  Hallowmas : 
— was't  not  at  Hallowmas,  master  Froth  ? 

Froth.    All-hallond  eve. 

Qlo.  Why,  very  well ;  I  hope  here  be  truths.  He,  sir, 
sitting,  as  I  say,  in  a  lower  chair,  sir ;  —  'twas  in  the  Bunch 
of  Grapes,  where,  indeed,  you  have  a  delight  to  sit :  have 
you  not  ? 

Froth.  I  have  so ;  because  it  is  an  open  room,  and  good 
for  winter. 

Olo.    Why,  very  well  then :  —  I  hope  here  be  truths. 

Ang.    This  will  last  out  a  night  in  Russia, 
When  nights  are  longest  there :   I'll  take  my  leave, 
And  leave  you  to  the  hearing  of  the  cause ; 
Hoping  you'll  find  good  cause  to  whip  them  all. 

Escal.    I  think  no  less ;  good  morrow  to  your  lordship. 

[Exit  Angelo. 
Now,  sir,  come  on :  What  was  done  to  Elbow's  wife,  once 
more? 

Olo.    Once,  sir  ?     There  was  nothing  done  to  her  once. 

Elb.  I  beseech  you,  sir,  ask  him  what  this  man  did  to 
my  wife. 

Qlo.    I  beseech  your  honor,  ask  me. 

Escal.    Well,  sir :   wdiat  did  this  gentleman  to  her  ? 

Clo.  I  beseech  you,  sir,  look  in  this  gentleman's  face :  — 
good  master  Froth,  look  upon  his  honor ;  'tis  for  a  good 
purpose :   doth  your  honor  mark  his  face  ? 

Escal.    Ay,  sir,  very  well. 

Clo.    Nay,  I  beseech  you,  mark  it  well. 

Escal.    Well,  I  do  so. 

Clo.    Doth  your  honor  see  any  harm  in  his  face  ? 

Escal.    Why,  no. 

Olo.  I'll  be  supposed  upon  a  book,  his  face  is  the  worst 
thing  about  him  :  good  then ;  if  his  face  be  the  worst  thing 
about  him,  how  could  master  Froth  do  the  constable's  wife 
any  harm  ?  I  would  know  that  of  your  honor. 

Escal.  He's  in  the  right :  constable,  what  say  you  to  it  ? 

Elb.  First,  an  it  like  you,  the  house  is  a  respected  house ; 
next,  this  is  a  respected  fellow;  and  his  mistress  is  a 
respected  woman. 


Act  II.]       MEASURE    FOR    MEASURE.  273 

Clo.  By  this  hand,  sir,  his  wife  is  a  more  respected  person 
than  any  of  us  all. 

_  JElh.  Varlet,  thou  liest;  thou  liest,  wicked  varlet :  the 
time  is  yet  to  come,  that  she  was  ever  respected  with  man, 
woman,  or  child. 

Qlo.  Sir,  she  was  respected  with  him  before  he  married 
with  her. 

Escal.  Which  is  the  wiser  here  ?  Justice,  or  Iniquity  ? 
Is  this  true  ? 

^  Elh.  0  thou  caitiff!  0  thou  varlet !  0  thou  wicked  Han- 
nibal !  I  respected  with  her,  before  I  was  married  to  her  ? 
If  ever  I  was  respected  with  her,  or  she  with  me,  let  not  your 
worship  think  me  the  poor  duke's  officer  :  —  prove  this,  thou 
wicked  Hannibal,  or  I'll  have  mine  action  of  battery  on  thee. 

Escal.  If  he  took  you  a  box  o'  th'  ear,  you  might  have 
your  action  of  slander  too. 

Elh.  Marry,  I  thank  your  good  worship  for  it :  what  is't 
your  worship's  pleasure  I  should  do  with  this  wicked  caitiff? 

Escal.  Truly,  officer,  because  he  has  some  offences  in 
him,  that  thou  wouldst  discover  if  thou  couldst,  let  him  con- 
tinue in  his  courses  till  thou  know'st  what  they  are. 

Elh.  Marry,  I  thank  your  worship  for  it :  —  thou  seest, 
thou  wicked  varlet  now,  what's  come  upon  thee  ;  thou  art  to 
continue  now,  thou  varlet ;  thou  art  to  continue. 

Escal.    Where  were  you  born,  friend?  \_To  Froth. 

Froth.    Here  in  Vienna,  sir. 

Escal.    Are  you  of  fourscore  pounds  a  year? 

Froth.   Yes,  and't  please  you,  sii\ 

Escal.    So. — What  trade  are  you  of,  sir  ?    [Tb  the  Clown. 

Clo.    A  tapster ;  a  poor  widow's  tapster. 

Escal.    Your  mistress's  name  ? 

Olo.    Mistress  Over-done. 

Escal.    Hath  she  had  any  more  than  one  husband? 

Clo.    Nine,  sir ;  Over-done  by  the  last. 

Escal.  Nine  ! — Come  hither  to  me,  master  Froth.  Master 
Froth,  I  would  not  have  you  acquainted  with  tapsters ;  they 
will  draw  you,  master  Froth,  and  you  will  hang  them :  get 
you  gone,  and  let  me  hear  no  more  of  you. 

Froth.  I  thank  your  worship  ;  for  mine  own  part,  I  never 
come  into  any  room  in  a  taphouse,  but  I  am  drawn  in. 

Escal.  Well;  no  more  of  it,  master  Froth:  farewell. 
\_Exit  Froth.]  —  Come  you  hither  to  me,  master  tapster; 
what's  your  name,  master  tapster? 

Olo.    Pompey. 

Escal.    What  else? 

Olo.    Bum,  sir. 

Vol.  L  — 18 


274  MEASURE    FOR   MEASURE.      [Act  iL 

Escal.  'Troth,  and  your  bum  is  the  greatest  thing  about 
you :  so  that,  in  the  beastliest  sense,  you  are  Ponipey  the 
Great.  Pompey,  you  are  partly  a  bawd,  Pompey,  howsoever 
you  color  it  in  being  a  tapster.  Are  you  not  ?  come,  tell 
me  true ;  it  shall  be  the  better  for  you. 

do.  Truly,  sir,  I  am  a  poor  fellow,  that  would  live. 

Escal.  IIow  would  you  live,  Pompey?  By  being  a  bawd ? 
What  do  you  think  of  the  trade,  Pompey  ?  is  it  a  lawful  trade  ? 

Clo.    If  the  law  would  allow  it,  sir. 

Escal.  But  the  law  will  not  allow  it,  Pompey;  nor  it 
shall  not  be  allowed  in  Vienna. 

Clo.  Does  your  worship  mean  to  geld  and  spay  all  the 
youth  in  the  city  ? 

Escal.    No,  Pompey. 

Clo.  Truly,  sir,  in  my  poor  opinion,  they  will  to't  then : 
if  your  worship  will  take  order  for  the  drabs  and  the  knaves, 
you  need  not  to  fear  the  bawds. 

Escal.  There  are  pretty  orders  beginning,  I  can  tell  you : 
it  is  but  heading  and  hanging. 

Clo.  If  you  head  and  hang  all  that  offend  that  way  but 
for  ten  year  together,  you'll  be  glad  to  give  out  a  commission 
for  more  heads.  If  this  law  hold  in  Vienna  ten  year,  I'll 
rent  the  fairest  house  in  it,  after  three  pence  a  day:  if  you 
live  to  see  this  come  to  pass,  say,  Pompey  told  you  so. 

Escal.  Thank  you,  good  Pompey ;  and,  in  requital  of 
your  prophecy,  hark  you, — I  advise  you,  let  me  not  find  you 
before  me  again  upon  any  complaint  whatsoever,  no,  not 
for  dwelling  where  you  do  ;  if  I  do,  Pompey,  I  shall  beat 
you  to  your  tent,  and  prove  a  shrewd  Caesar  to  you  ;  in  plain 
dealing,  Pompey,  I  shall  have  you  whipped :  so  for  this 
time,  Pompey,  fare  you  well. 

Clo.    I  thank  your  worship  for  your  good  counsel :  but  ] 
shall  follow  it  as  the  flesh  and  fortune  shall  better  determine. 
Whip  me  ?  no,  no  ;  let  carman  whip  his  jade  ; 
The  valiant  heart's  not  whipped  out  of  his  trade.         [Exit. 

Escal.  Come  hither  to  me,  master  Elbow ;  come  hither, 
master  constable.  How  long  have  you  been  in  this  place 
of  constable  ? 

Elb.    Seven  year  and  a  half,  sir. 

Escal.  I  thought  by  your  readiness  in  the  office,  you  had 
continued  in  it  some  time :  you  say,  seven  years  together  ? 

Elb,    And  a  half,  sir. 

Escal.  Alas  !  it  hath  been  great  pains  to  you  !  They  do 
you  -wrong  to  put  you  so  oft  upon't :  are  there  not  men  in 
your  ward  sufficient  to  serve  it  ? 

Elb.    i'aith,  sir,  few  of  any  wit  in  such  matters :  as  they 


Act  IT.]       MEASURE    FOR    MEASURE.  275 

are  choser,  thej  are  glad  to  choose  me  for  them :  I  do  it  for 
some  piece  of  money,  and  go  through  with  all. 

Escal.    Look  you,  bring  me  in  the  names  of  some  six  or 
seven,  the  most  sufficient  of  your  parish. 

Elh,    To  your  worship's  house,  sir  ? 

Escal.    To  my  house :    fare   you  well.     \_Exit  Elbow.] 
What's  o'clock,  think  you  ? 

Just.    Eleven,  sir. 

Escal.    I  pray  you  home  to  dinner  with  me. 

Just.    I  humbly  thank  you. 

Escal.    It  grieves  me  for  the  death  of  Claudio ; 
But  there's  no  remedy. 

Just.    Lord  Angelo  is  severe. 

Escal.  It  is  but  needful: 

Mercy  is  not  itself  that  oft  looks  so ; 
Pardon  is  still  the  nurse  of  second  woe : 
But  yet,  —  Poor  Claudio!  —  There's  no  remedy. 
Come,  sir  [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.     Another  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  Provost  and  a  Servant. 

Serv.    He's  hearing  of  a  cause ;  he  will  come  straight. 
I'll  tell  him  of  you. 

Prov.    Pray  you,  do.     \_Exit  Servant.]     I'll  know 
His  pleasure :  may  be,  he  will  relent :  alas. 
He  hath  but  as  offended  in  a  dream  ! 
All  sects,  all  ages  smack  of  this  vice ;  and  he 
To  die  for  it!  — 

Enter  Angelo. 

Ang.  Now,  what's  the  matter,  provost. 

Prov.    Is  it  your  will  Claudio  shall  die  to-morrow? 

Ang.    Did  I  not  tell  thee,  yea  ?     Hadst  thou  not  order  ? 
Why  dost  thou  ask  again  ? 

Prov.  Lest  I  might  be  too  rash: 

Under  your  good  correction,  I  have  seen, 
When,  after  execution,  judgment  hath 
Repented  o'er  his  doom. 

Ang.  Go  to  ;  let  that  be  mine  • 

Do  you  your  office,  or  give  up  your  place, 
.\nd  you  shall  well  be  spared. 

ProxK  I  crave  your  honor's  pardon. — 

What  shall  be  done,  sir,  with  the  groaning  Juliet  ? 
She's  very  near  her  hour. 


276  MEASURE    FOR    MEASURE.       [Act  IL 

Aug.  Dispose  of  her 

To  some  more  fitter  place ;  and  that  with  speed. 

Re-enter  Servant. 

Serv.    Here  is  the  sister  of  the  man  condemned, 
Desires  access  to  you. 

Ang.  Hath  he  a  sister  ? 

Prov.    Ay,  my  good  lord;  a  very  virtuous  maid, 
And  to  be  shortly  of  a  sisterhood. 
If  not  already. 

Ang.  Well,  let  her  be  admitted.     [Exit  Servant 

See  you  the  fornicatress  be  removed : 
Let  her  have  needful,  but  not  lavish,  means ; 
There  shall  be  order  for  it. 

E^iter  Lucio  and  Isabella. 

Prov.    Save  your  honor.  [Offering  to  retire. 

Ang.  Stay  a  little  while. — [To  Isab."]    You  are  welcome: 
What's  your  will  ? 

Jsab.    I  am  a  woful  suitor  to  your  honor ; 
Please  but  your  honor  hear  me. 

Ang.    Well ;  what's  your  suit  ? 

Isab.    There  is  a  vice,  that  most  I  do  abhor, 
And  most  desire  should  meet  the  blow  of  justice ; 
For  which  I  would  not  plead,  but  that  I  must; 
For  which  I  must  not  plead,  but  that  I  am 
At  war  'twixt  will  and  will  not. 

Ang.  Well ;  the  matter  ? 

Isab.    I  have  a  brother  is  condemned  to  die : 
I  do  beseech  you,  let  it  be  his  fault,  * 

And  not  my  brother. 

Prov.  Heaven  give  thee  moving  graces ! 

Ang.    Condemn  the  fault,  and  not  the  actor  of  it ! 
Why,  every  fault's  condemned,  ere  it  be  done: 
Mine  were  the  very  cipher  of  a  function, 
To  fine  the  faults,  whose  fine  stands  in  record. 
And  let  go  by  the  actor. 

Isab.  0  just,  but  severe  law ! 

I  had  a  brother  then. — Heaven  keep  your  honor ! 

[Retiring. 

lucio.    [To  Isab.]  Give't  not  o'er  so:  to  him  again,  en- 
treat him : 
Kneel  down  before  him,  hang  upon  his  gown ; 
You  are  too  cold ;  if  you  should  need  a  pin, 
You  could  not  with  more  tame  a  tongue  desire  it: 
To  him,  I  say. 


Act  11. ]      MEASURE   FOR   MEASURE.  277 

Isah.    Must  he  needs  die  ? 

Ang.  Maiden,  no  remedy. 

Isab.    Yes ;  I  do  think  that  you  might  pardon  him, 
And  neither  Heaven,  nor  man,  grieve  at  the  mercy. 

Ang.    I  will  not  do't. 

Isab.  But  can  you,  if  you  would? 

Ang.    Look,  what  I  will  not,  that  I  cannot  do. 

Isah.    But  might  you  do't,  and  do  the  world  no  wrong, 
If  so  your  heart  were  touched  with  that  remorse 
As  mine  is  to  him? 

Ang.  He's  sentenced;  'tis  too  late. 

I/>.icio    You  are  too  cold.  [To  Isabella. 

Isab.    Too  late?  why,  no:  I,  that  do  speak  a  word. 
May  call  it  back  again :  well,  believe  this. 
No  ceremony  that  to  great  ones  'longs, 
Not  the  king's  crown,  nor  the  deputed  sword, 
The  marshal's  truncheon,  nor  the  judge's  robe, 
Become  them  with  one  half  so  good  a  grace, 
As  mercy  does.     If  he  had  been  as  you. 
And  you  as  he,  you  would  have  slipped  like  him ; 
But  he,  like  you,  would  not  have  been  so  stern. 

Ang.    Pray  you,  begone. 

Isab.    I  would  to  Heaven  I  had  your  potency, 
And  you  were  Isabel!     Should  it  then  be' thus? 
No ;  I  would  tell  what  'twere  to  be  a  judge, 
And  what  a  prisoner. 

Lucio.    Aj,  touch  him :  there's  the  vein.  [^Aside. 

Ang.    Your  brother  is  a  forfeit  of  the  law, 
And  you  but  waste  your  words. 

Isab.  Alas!  alas! 

Why,  all  the  souls  that  were,  were  forfeit  once; 
And  He  that  might  the  vantage  best  have  took, 
Found  out  the  remedy :  how  would  you  be. 
If  He,  which  is  the  top  of  judgment,  should 
But  judge  you  as  you  are?     0,  think  on  that; 
And  mercy  then  will  breathe  within  your  lips. 
Like  man  new  made. 

Ang.  Be  you  content,  fair  maid; 

It  is  the  law,  not  I,  condemns  your  brother: 
Were  he  my  kinsman,  brother,  or  my  son. 
It  should  be  thus  with  him ;  —  he  must  die  to-morrow. 

Isab.    To-morrow  ?     0,  that's  sudden  I     Spare  him,  spare 
him ! 
He's  not  prepared  for  death !     Even  for  our  kitchens 
We  kill  the  fowl  of  season :  shall  we  serve  Heaven 
With  less  respect  than  we  do  minister 


278  WEASUKE   FOll    MEASURE.       [Act  II 

To  our  gross  selves  ?     Good,  good  my  lord,  bethink  you : 
Who  is  it  that  hath  died  for  this  oflfence  ? 
There's  many  have  committed  it. 

Lucio.  Ay,  well  said. 

Ang.    The  law  hath  not  been  dead,  though  it  hath  slept ; 
Those  many  had  not  dared  to  do  that  evil, 
If  the  first  man  that  did  the  edict  infringe. 
Had  answered  for  his  deed :  now%   'tis  awake ; 
Takes  note  of  what  is  done ;  and,  like  a  prophet, 
Looks  in  a  glass,  that  shows  what  future  evils, 
(Either  now,  or  by  remissness  new-conceived. 
And  so  in  progress  to  be  hatched  and  born,) 
Are  now  to  have  no  successive  degrees. 
But,  where  they  live,  to  end. 

Jsah.  Yet  show  some  pity. 

Ang.    I  show  it  most  of  all,  when  I  show  justice; 
For  then  I  pity  those  I  do  not  know, 
Which  a  dismissed  offence  would  after  gall; 
And  do  him  right,  that,  answering  one  foul  wrong, 
Lives  not  to  act  another.     Be  satisfied : 
Your  brother  dies  to-morrow:  be  content. 

Isah.    So  you  must  be  the  first,  that  gives  this  sentence ; 
And  he,  that  suffers.     0,  it  is  excellent 
To  have  a  giant's  strength ;  but  it  is  tyrannous 
To  use  it  like  a  giant. 

Lucio.  That's  well  said. 

Isah.    Could  great  men  thunder 
As  Jove  himself  does,  Jove  would  ne'er  be  quiet ; 
For  every  pelting,  petty  ofiicer. 

Would  use  his  heaven  for  thunder ;  nothing  but  thunder. 
Merciful  Heaven ! 

Thou  rather,  with  thy  sharp  and  sulphurous  bolt, 
Split'st  the  unwedgeable  and  gnarled  oak. 
Than  the  soft  myrtle  :  —  But  man,  proud  man  ! 
Dressed  in  a  little  brief  authority. 
Most  ignorant  of  what  he's  most  assured, 
His  glassy  essence,  —  like  an  angry  ape, 
Plays  such  fantastic  tricks  before  high  Heaven, 
As  make  the  angels  weep ;  who,  with  our  spleens. 
Would  all  themselves  laugh  mortal. 

Lucio.    0,  to  him,  to  him,  wench  :  he  will  relent ; 
He's  coming ;  I  perceive't. 

Prov.  Pray  Heaven,  she  win  him ! 

laab.    We  cannot  weigh  our  brother  with  ourself: 
Great  men  may  jest  with  saints :   'tis  wit  in  them ! 
But,  in  the  less,  foul  profanation. 


ActIL]      measure   for   measure  279 

Lucio.    Thou'rt  in  the  right,  girl ;  more  o'  that. 

Isab.    That  in  the  captain's  but  a  choleric  word. 
Which  in  the  soldier  is  flat  blasphemy. 

Lucio.    Art  advised  o'  that  ?     More  on't. 

Ang.    Why  do  you  put  these  sayings  upon  me  ? 

Isab.    Because  authority,  though  it  err  like  others, 
Hath  yet  a  kind  of  medicine  in  itself, 
That  skins  the  vice  o'  the  top :  go  to  your  bosom ; 
Knock  there,  and  ask  your  heart  what  it  doth  know 
That's  like  my  brother's  fault :  if  it  confess 
A  natural  guiltiness,  such  as  is  his, 
Let  it  not  sound  a  thought  upon  your  tongue 
Against  my  brother's  life. 

Ang.                                     She  speaks,  and  'tis 
Such  sense,  that  my  sense  breeds  with  it. Fare  you  well. 

Isab.    Gentle  my  lord,  turn  back. 

Ang.    I  will  bethink  me :  —  Come  again  to-morrow. 

Isab.    Hark,  how  I'll  bribe  you :  good  my  lord,  turn  back 

Ang.    How  !     Bribe  me  ? 

Isab.    Ay,  with  such  gifts,  that  heaven  shall  share  with 
you. 

Lucio.    You  had  marred  all  else. 

Isab.    Not  with  fond  shekels  of  the  tested  gold, 
Or  stones,  whose  rates  are  either  rich,  or  poor. 
As  fancy  values  them ;  but  with  true  prayers. 
That  shall  be  up  at  heaven,  and  enter  there. 
Ere  sunrise ;  prayers  from  preserved  souls, 
From  fasting  maids,  whose  minds  are  dedicate 
To  nothing  temporal. 

Ang.  Well ;  come  to  me 

To-morrow. 

Lucio.    Go  to ;  it  is  well ;  away.         [Aside  to  Isabel. 

Isab.    Heaven  keep  your  honor  safe ! 

Ang.  Amen. 

For  I  am  that  way  going  to  temptation,  \^Aside. 

Where  prayers  cross. 

Isab.  At  Avhat  hour  to-morrow 

Shall  I  attend  your  lordship  ? 

Ang.  At  any  time  'fore  noon. 

Isab.    Save  your  honor ! 

[Exeunt  Lucio,  Isabella,  and  Provost. 

Ang.  From  thee  ;  even  from  thy  virtue. — 

What's  this?     What's  this?     Is  this  her  fault,  or  mine? 
The  tempter,  or  the  tempted,  who  sins  most?     Ila! 
Not  she ;  nor    doth  she  tempt :  but  it  is  I, 
That,  lying  by  tbe  violet,  in  the  sun, 


2S0  MEASUKE    FOR    MEASURE.      [Act  11. 

Do,  as  the  carrion  docs,  not  as  the  flower, 

Corrupt  with  virtuous  season.      Can  it  be. 

That  modesty  may  more  betray  our  sense 

Than  woman's  lightness  ?     Having  waste  ground  enough, 

Shall  we  desire  to  raze  the  sanctuary. 

And  pitch  our  evils  there  ?     0,  fie,  fie,  fie  ! 

What  dost  thou  ?     Or,  what  art  thou,  Angelo  ? 

Dost  thou  desire  her  foully,  for  those  things 

That  make  her  good  ?     0,  let  her  brother  live : 

Thieves  for  their  robbery  have  authority. 

When  judges  steal  themselves.     What  ?  do  I  love  her, 

That  I  desire  to  hear  her  speak  again, 

And  feast  upon  her  eyes  ?     What  is't  I  dream  on  ? 

0  cunning  enemy,   that,  to  catch  a  saint. 

With  saints  dost  bait  thy  hook !     Most  dangerous 

Is  that  temptation,  that  doth  goad  us  on 

To  sin  in  loving  virtue :  never  could  the  strumpet, 

With  all  her  double  vigor,  art  and  nature, 

Once  stir  my  temper;  but  this  virtuous  maid 

Subdues  me  quite  ;  —  ever,  till  noAV, 

When  men  were  fond,  I  smiled,  and  wondered  how !    {Exit. 

SCENE  III.     A  Boom  in  a  Prison. 

Enter  Duke,  habited  like  a  friar,  and  Provost. 

Duke.    Hail  to  you,  provost !  so  I  think  you  are. 
Prov.    I  am  the  provost :  what's  your  will,  good  friar  ? 
Duke.    Bound  by  my  charity,  and  my  blest  order, 

1  come  to  visit  the  afflicted  spirits 

Here  in  the  prison :  do  me  the  common  right 
To  let  me  see  them ;  and  to  make  me  know 
The  nature  of  their  crimes,  that  I  may  minister 
To  them  accordingly. 

Prov.    I  would  do  more  than  that,  if  more  were  needful. 

Enter  Juliet. 

Look,  here  comes  one  a  gentlewoman  of  mine, 
Who,  falling  in  the  flames  of  her  own  youth. 
Hath  blistered  her  report :  she  is  with  child ; 
And  he  that  got  it,  sentenced;  —  a  young  man 
More  fit  to  do  another  such  off"ence, 
Than  die  for  this. 

Duke.  When  must  he  die  ? 

Prov.    As  I  do  think,  to-morrow. — 
I  have  provided  for  you ;  stay  a  while,  [To  JULIBT. 

And  vou  shall  be  conducted. 


Act  II.]      MEASURE    FOR    MEASURE.  281 

Duke.    Repent  you,  fair  one,  of  the  sin  you  carry? 

Juliet.    I  do ;  and  bear  the  shame  most  patiently. 

Duke.    I'll  teach  you  how  you  shall  arraign  your  con- 
science, 
And  try  your  penitence,  if  it  be  sound, 
Or  hollowly  put  on. 

Juliet.  I'll  gladly  learn. 

Duke.    Love  you  the  man  that  wronged  you  ? 

Juliet.    Yes,  as  I  love  the  woman  that  wronged  him. 

Duke.    So  then,  it  seems,  your  most  offenceful  act 
Was  mutually  committed  ? 

Juliet.  Mutually. 

Duke.    Then  was  your  sin  of  heavier  kind  than  his. 

Juliet.    I  do  confess  it,  and  repent  it,  father. 

Duke.    'Tis  meet  so,  daughter :  but  lest  you  do  repent, 
As  that  the  sin  hath  brought  you  to  this  shame, — 
Which  sorrow  is  always  toward  ourselves,  not  heaven; 
Showing,  we'd  not  spare  heaven  as  we  love  it, 
But  as  we  stand  in  fear, — 

Juliet.    I  do  repent  me,  as  it  is  an  evil ; 
And  take  the  shame  with  joy. 

Duke.  There  rest. 

Your  partner,  as  I  hear,  must  die  to-morrow, 
And  I  am  going  with  instruction  to  him. — 
Grace  go  with  you  !     Benedicite !  [Exit, 

Juliet.    Must  die  to-morrow !     0,  injurious  love, 
That  respites  me  a  life,  whose  very  comfort 
Is  still  a  dying  horror  ! 

Prov.  'Tis  pity  of  him.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.     A  Room  in  Angelo's  Souse. 
Enter  Angelo. 

Ang.    When  I  would  pray  and  think,  I  think  and  pray 
To  several  subjects :  Heaven  hath  my  empty  words ; 
Whilst  my  invention,  hearing  not  my  tongue. 
Anchors  on  Isabel :  Heaven  in  ray  mouth, 
As  if  I  did  but  only  chew  his  name ; 
And  in  my  heart,  the  strong  and  swelling  evil 
Of  my  conception.     The  state,  whereon  I  studied, 
Is  like  a  good  thing,  being  often  read, 
Grown  feared  and  tedious ;  yea,  my  gravity. 
Wherein  (let  no  man  hear  me)  I  take  pride, 
Could  I,  with  boot,  change  for  an  idle  plume, 
Which  the  air  beats  for  vain.     0  place  !  0  form ! 


282  MEASTJllE    FOR    MEASURE.      [Act  11 

Ho-w   often  dost  tliou  -witli  tliy  case,  thy  habit, 
Wrench  awe  from  fools,  and  tie  the  wiser  souls 
To  thy  false  seeming  ?     Blood,  thou  still  art  blood ! 
Let's  write  good  angel  on  the  devil's  horn, 
'Tis  not  the  devil's  crest. 

Enter  Servant. 

How  now :  Avho's  there  ? 

Serv.  One  Isabel,  a  sister, 

Desires  access  to  you. 

Ang.  Teach  her  the  way.     [Exit   Serv 

0  heavens ! 

Why  does  my  blood  thus  muster  to  my  heart ; 
Making  both  it  unable  for  itself. 
And  dispossessing  all  the  other  parts 
Of  necessary  fitness? 

So  play  the  foolish  throngs  with  one  that  SAVOons ; 
Come  all  to  help  him,  and  so  stop  the  air 
By  which  he  should  revive :  and  even  so 
The  general,  subject  to  a  well-wished  king, 
Quit  their  own  part,  and  in  obsequious  fondness 
Crowd  to  his  presence,  where  their  untaught  love 
Must  needs  appear  offence. 

Enter  Isabella. 

How  now,  fair  maid  ? 

Isah,    I  am  come  to  know  your  pleasure. 

Ang.    That  you  might  know  it,  would  much  better  please 
me. 
Than  to  demand  what  'tis.    Your  brother  cannot  live. 

Isah.    Even  so  ? — Heaven  keep  your  honor  !      [Retiring. 

Ang.    Yet  may  he  live  awhile ;  and  it  may  be, 
As  long  as  you,  or  I :  yet  he  must  die. 

Isah.    Under  your  sentence? 

Ang.    Yea. 

Isah.    When,  I  beseech  you  ?     That  in  his  reprieve, 
Longer,  or  shorter,  he  may  be  so  fitted, 
That  his  soul  sicken  not. 

Ang.    Ha !     Fie,  these  filthy  vices !     It  were  as  good 
To  pardon  him,  that  hath  from  nature  stolen 
A  man  already  made,  as  to  remit 
Their  saucy  sweetness,  that  do  coin  heaven's  image 
In  stamps  that  are  forbid :   'tis  all  as  easy 
Falsely  to  take  away  a  life  true  made, 
As  to  put  mettle  in  restrained  means, 
To  make  a  false  one. 


Act  II.]      MEASURE    FOR   MEASURE.  283 

Isah.    'Tis  set  down  so  in  heaven,  but  net  in  earth. 

Ang.    Say  you  so  ?     Then  I  shall  pose  you  quickly 
Which  had  you  rather,  that  the  most  just  law 
Now  took  your  brother's  life ;  or,  to  redeem  him, 
Give  up  your  body  to  such  sweet  uncleanness, 
As  she  that  he  hath  stained  ? 

Isab.  Sir,  believe  this, 

I  had  rather  give  my  body  than  my  soul. 

Ang.    I  talk  not  of  your  soul :  oui'  compelled  sins 
Stand  more  for  number  than  account. 

Isah.  How  say  you; 

Ang.    Nay,  I'll  not  warrant  that ;  for  I  can  speak 
Against  the  thing  I  say.     Answer  to  this :  — 
1,  now  the  voice  of  the  recorded  law, 
Pronounce  a  sentence  on  your  brother's  life : 
Might  there  not  be  a  charity  in  sin, 
To  save  this  brother's  life  ? 

Isah.  Please  you  to  do't, 

I'll  take  it  as  a  peril  to  my  soul. 
It  is  no  sin  at  all,  but  charity. 

Ang.    Pleased  you  to  do't,  at  peril  of  your  soul, 
Were  equal  poise  of  sin  and  charity. 

Isah.    That  I  do  beg  his  life,  if  it  be  sin. 
Heaven,  let  me  bear  it !  you  granting  of  my  suit. 
If  that  be  sin,  I'll  make  it  my  morn  prayer 
To  have  it  added  to  the  faults  of  mine. 
And  nothing  of  your  answer. 

Ang.  Nay,  but  hear  me : 

Your  sense  pursues  not  mine :  either  you  are  ignorant, 
Or  seem  so,  craftily :  and  that's  not  good. 

Isah.    Let  me  be  ignorant,  and  in  nothing  good, 
But  graciously  to  know  I  am  no  better. 

Ang.    Thus  wisdom  wishes  to  appear  most  bright. 
When  it  doth  tax  itself!  as  these  black  masks 
Proclaim  an  enshield  beauty  ten  times  louder 
Than  beauty  could  displayed.  —  But  mark  me ; 
To  be  received  plain,  I'll  speak  more  gross : 
Your  brother  is  to  die. 

Isah.    So. 

Ang.    And  his  offence  is  so,  as  it  appears 
Accountant  to  the  law  upon  that  pain. 

Isab.    True. 

Ang.   Admit  no  other  way  to  save  his  life, 
(As  I  subscribe  not  that,  nor  any  other. 
But  in  the  loss  of  question,)  that  you,  his  sister, 
Finding  yourself  desired  of  such  a  person, 


284  MEASURE    FOR   MEASURE,     [-^ct  II 

Whose  credit  witli  the  judge,  or  own  great  place, 
Could  fetch  your  brother  from  the  manacles 
Of  the  all-binding  law ;  and  that  there  were 
No  earthly  mean  to  save  him,  but  that  either 
You  must  lay  down  the  treasures  of  your  body 
To  this  sujiposed,  or  else  to  let  him  suffer; 
What  would  you  do. 

Isah.    As  much  for  my  poor  brother,  as  myself: 
That  is,  were  I  under  the  terms  of  death. 
The  impression  of  keen  whips  I'd  wear  as  rubies, 
And  strip  myself  to  death,  as  to  a  bed 
That  longing  I  have  been  sick  for,  ere  I'd  yield 
My  body  up  to  shame. 

Ang.  Then  must  your  brother  die. 

Isab.    And  'twere  the  cheaper  way : 
Better  it  were,  a  brother  died  at  once. 
Than  that  a  sister,  by  redeeming  him. 
Should  die  forever. 

Ang.    Were  not  you  then  as  cruel  as  the  sentence 
That  you  have  slandered  so  ? 

Isab.    Ignominy  in  ransom,  and  free  pardon, 
Are  of  two  houses :  lawful  mercy  is 
Nothing  akin  to  foul  redemption. 

Ang.    You  seemed  of  late  to  make  the  law  a  tyrant ; 
And  rather  proved  the  sliding  of  your  brother 
A  merriment  than  a  vice. 

Isab.    0  pardon  me,  my  lord ;  it  oft  falls  out. 
To  have  what  we'd  have,  we  speak  not  what  we  mean : 
I  something  do  excuse  the  thing  I  hate. 
For  his  advantage  that  I  dearly  love. 

Ang.    We  are  all  frail. 

Isab.  Else  let  my  brother  die, 

If  not  a  feodary,  but  only  he. 
Owe,  and  succeed  by  weakness. 

Ang.  Nay,  women  are  frail,  too. 

Isab.    Ay,  as  the  glasses  where  they  view  themselves ; 
Which  are  as  easy  broke  as  they  make  forms. 
Women  !  —  Help  Heaven  !  men  their  creation  mar 
In  profiting  by  them.     Nay,  call  us  ten  times  frail; 
For  we  are  soft  as  our  complexions  are, 
And  credulous  to  false  prints. 

Ang.  I  think  it  well : 

And  from  this  testimony  of  your  own  sex, 
(Since,  I  suppose,  we  are  made  to  be  no  stronger 
Than  faults  may  shake  our  frames,)  let  me  be  bold;  — 
I  do  arrest  your  words :  Be  that  you  are. 


A.CT  II.]   MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.      285 

That  is,  a  Avoman ;  if  you  be  more,  you're  none : 
If  you  be  one,  (as  you  are  well  expressed 
By  all  external  warrants,)  show  it  now. 
By  putting  on  the  destined  livery. 

Isah.    I  have  no  tongue  but  one :  gentle  my  lord, 
Let  me  entreat  you  speak  the  former  language. 

Ang.    Plainly  conceive,  I  love  you. 

Isah.    ]My  brother  did  love  Juliet ;  and  you  tell  me, 
That  he  shall  die  for  it. 

Ang.    He  shall  not,  Isabel,  if  you  give  me  love. 

Isah.    I  know,  your  virtue  hath  a  license  in't, 
Which  seems  a  little  fouler  than  it  is, 
To  pluck  on  others. 

Ang.  Believe  me,  on  mine  honor, 

My  words  express  my  purpose. 

Isah.    Ha !     Little  honor  to  be  much  believed. 
And  most  pernicious  purpose  !  —  Seeming,  seeming  !  — 
I  will  proclaim  thee,  Angelo ;  look  for't : 
Sign  me  a  present  pardon  for  my  brother. 
Or,  with  an  outstretch'd  throat,  I'll  tell  the  world, 
Aloud,  what  man  thou  art. 

Ang.  Who  will  belive  thee,  Isabel? 

My  unsoiled  name,  the  austereness  of  my  life. 
My  vouch  against  you,  and  my  place  i'  the  state, 
Will  so  your  accusation  overweigh. 
That  you  shall  stifle  in  your  own  report. 
And  smell  of  calumny.     I  have  begun ; 
And  now  I  give  my  sensual  race  the  rein: 
Fit  thy  consent  to  my  sharp  appetite ; 
Lay  by  all  nicety,  and  prolixious  blushes, 
That  banish  what  they  sue  for ;  redeem  thy  brother 
By  yielding  up  thy  body  to  my  will ; 
Or  else  he  must  not  only  die  the  death, 
But  thy  unkindness  shall  his  death  draw  out 
To  lingering  sufferance :  answer  me  to-morrow, 
Or,  by  the  affection  that  now  guides  me  most, 
I'll  prove  a  tyrant  to  him :  as  for  you. 
Say  what  you  can,  my  false  o'erweighs  your  true.        \Exit. 

Isah.    To  whom  shall  I  complain  ?     Did  I  tell  this, 
Who  w^ould  believe  me  ?     0  perilous  mouths. 
That  bear  in  them  one  and  the  self-same  tongue, 
Either  of  condemnation  or  approof ! 
Bidding  the  law  make  courtesy  to  their  will; 
Hooking  both  right  and  wrong  to  the  appetite, 
To  follow  as  it  draws  !     I'll  to  my  brother : 
Though  he  hath  fallen  by  prompture  of  the  tlood. 


286  MEASURE    FOll    MEASURE.    [Act  III 

Yet  hath  he  in  him  such  a  mind  of  honor, 

That  had  he  twenty  heads  to  tender  down 

On  twenty  bloody  blocks,  he'd  yield  them  up, 

Before  his  sister  should  her  body  stoop 

To  such  abhorred  pollution. 

Then,  Isabel,  live  chaste,  and,  brother,  die : 

More  than  our  brother  is  our  chastity. 

I'll  tell  him  yet  of  Angelo's  request, 

And  fit  his  mind  to  death,  for  his  soul's  rest.         [^Exit 


ACT   III. 

SCENE  I.     A  Boom  in  the  Prison. 
Enter  Duke,  Claudio,  and  Provost. 

Duke.    So,  then  you  hope  for  pardon  from  lord  Angelo  ? 

Claud.    The  miserable  have  no  other  medicine, 
But  only  hope : 
I  have  hope  to  live,  and  am  prepared  to  die. 

Duke.    Be  absolute  for  death ;  either  death  or  life 
Shall  thereby  be  the  sweeter.     Reason  thus  with  life, — 
If  I  do  lose  thee,  I  do  lose  a  thing 
That  none  but  fools  would  keep :  a  breath  thou  art, 
(Servile  to  all  the  skyey  influences,) 
That  dost  this  habitation,  where  thou  keep'st. 
Hourly  afflict :  merely,  thou  art  death's  fool ; 
For  him  thou  labor'st  by  thy  flight  to  shun. 
And  yeC  runn'st  toward  him  still.     Thou  art  not  noble; 
For  all  the  accommodations  that  thou  bear'st, 
Are  nursed  by  baseness.     Thou  art  by  no  means  valiant ; 
For  thou  dost  fear  the  soft  and  tender  fork 
Of  a  poor  worm.     Thy  best  of  rest  is  sleep. 
And  that  thou  oft  provok'st ;  yet  grossly  fear'st 
Thy  death,  wbich  is  no  more.     Thou  art  not  thyself; 
For  thou  exist'st  on  many  a  thousand  grains 
That  issue  out  of  dust.     Happy  thou  art  not; 
For  what  thou  hast  not,  still  thou  striv'st  to  get ; 
And  what  thou  hast,  forget'st.     Thou  art  not  certain; 
For  thy  complexion  shifts  to  strange  affects. 
After  the  moon.     If  thou  art  rich,  thou  art  poor; 
For,  like  an  ass,  whose  back  with  ingots  bows. 
Thou  bear'st  thy  heavy  riches  but  a  journey. 
And  death  unloads  thet.     Friend  hast  thou  none; 


AcTiri.J     MEASURE    FOll    MEASURE.  '2S7 

For  tliine  own  bowels,  which  do  call  thee  sire, 

The  mere  eifusion  of  thy  proper  loins, 

Do  curse  the  gout,  serpigo,  and  the  rheum, 

For  ending  thee  no  sooner.     Thou  hast  nor  youth  nor  age ; 

But,  as  it  were,  an  after  dinner's  sleep. 

Dreaming  on  both ;  for  all  thy  blessed  youth 

Becomes  as  aged,  and  doth  beg  the  alms 

Of  palsied  eld ;  and  when  thou  art  old,  and  rich, 

Thou  hast  neither  heat,  affection,  limb,  nor  beauty, 

To  make  thy  riches  pleasant.     What's  yet  in  this 

That  bears  the  name  of  life  ?     Yet  in  this  life 

Lie  hid  more  thousand  deaths ;  yet  death  we  fear, 

That  makes  these  odds  all  even. 

Claud.  I  humbly  thank  you. 

To  sue  to  live,  I  find,  I  seek  to  die : 
And  seeking  death,  find  life :  let  it  come  on. 

Enter  Isabella. 

Isah.    What  ho  !    Peace  here ;  grace  and  good  company ! 

Prov.    Who's    there  ?     Come   in ;    the    wish    deserves   a 
welcome. 

Duke.    Dear  sir,  ere  long  I'll  visit  you  again. 

Claud.    Most  holy  sir,  I  thank  you. 

Isah.    My  business  is  a  word  or  two  with  Claudio. 

Prov.    And  very  welcome.     Look,  seignior,  here's  your 
sister. 

Duke.    Provost,  a  word  with  you. 

Prov.  As  many  as  you  please. 

Duke.    Bring  me  to  hear  them  speak,  where  I  may  be 
concealed. 
Yet  hear  them.  [Exeunt  Duke  and  Provost. 

Claud.    Now,  sister,  what's  the  comfort  ? 

Isah.    Why,  as  all  comforts  are,  most  good  indeed : 
Lord  Angelo,  having  affairs  to  Heaven, 
Intends  you  for  his  swift  ambassador. 
Where  you  shall  be  an  everlasting  leiger : 
Therefore  your  best  appointment  make  with  speed; 
To-morrow  you  set  on. 

Claud.  Is  there  no  remedy  ? 

Isab     None,  but  such  remedy,  as   to  save  a  head. 
To  cleave  a  heart  in  twain. 

Claud.  But  is  there  any? 

Isab.    Yes,  brother,  you  may  live ; 
There  is  a  devilish  mercy  in  the  judge. 
If  you'll  implore  it,  that  will  free  your  life, 
But  fetter  you  till  death. 


288  MEASURE    FOR    MEASURE.     [Act  ILL 

Claud.  Perpetual  durance? 

Isah.    Ay,  just,  perpetual  durance ;  a  restraint, 
Though  all  the  world's  vastidity  jou  had, 
To  a  determined  scope. 

Claud.  But  in  what  nature  ? 

Isah.    In  such  a  one  as  (you  consenting  to't) 
Would  bark  your  honor  from  that  trunk  you  bear, 
And  leave  you  naked. 

Claud.  Let  me  know  the  point. 

Isah.    0,  I  do  fear  thee,   Claudio ;  and  I  quake, 
Lest  thou  a  feverous  life  should'st  entertain, 
And  six  or  seven  winters  more  respect 
Than  a  perpetual  honor.     Dar'st  thou  die? 
The  sense  of  death  is  most  in  apprehension ; 
And  the  poor  beetle,  that  we  tread  upon. 
In  corporal  sufferance  finds  a  pang  as  great 
As  when  a  giant  dies. 

Claud.  Why  give  you  me  this  shame? 

Think  you  I  can  a  resolution  fetch 
From  flowery  tenderness  ?     If  I  must  die, 
I  will  encounter  darkness  as  a  bride, 
And  hug  it  in  mine  arms. 

Isah.    There  spake  my  brother ;  there  my  father's  grave 
Did  utter  forth  a  voice !     Yes,  thou  must  die : 
Thou  art  too  noble  to  conserve  a  life 
In  base  appliances.     This  outward-sainted  deputy — 
Whose  settled  visage  and  deliberate  word 
Nips  youth  i'  the  head,  and  follies  doth  enmew 
As  falcon  doth  the  fowl  —  is  yet  a  devil ; 
His  filth  within  being  cast,  he  would  appear 
A  pond  as  deep  as  hell. 

Claud.  The  princely  Angelo  ? 

Isah.    0,   'tis  the  cunning  livery  of  hell, 
The  damned'st  body  to  invest  and   cover 
In  princely  guards  !     Dost  thou  think,  Claudio, 
If  I  would  yield  him  my  virginity, 
Thou  might'st  be  freed? 

Claud.  0,  Heavens !  it  cannot  be. 

Isah.    Yes,  he  would  give  it  thee,  from  this  rank  offence, 
So  to  off"end  him  still :  this  night's  the  time 
That  I  should  do  what  I  abhor  to  name, 
Or  else  thou  diest  to-morrow. 

Claud.  Thou  shalt  not  do't. 

Isah.    0,  were  it  but  my  life, 
I'd  throw  it  down  for  your  deliverance 
As  frankly  as  a  pin. 


ActTIF]     measure    for    measure.  289 

Claud.  Thanks,  luy  dear  Isabel, 

Isab.    Be  ready,  Claudio,  for  your  death  to-morrow. 

Claud.    Yes.  —  Has  he  aifections  in  him, 
That  thus  can  make  him  bite  the  law  by  the  nose, 
When  he  would  force  it  ?     Sure  it  is  no  sin ; 
Or  of  the  deadly  seven  it  is  the  least. 

Isab.    Which  is  the  least  ? 

Claud.    If  it  were  damnable,  he,  being  so  wise, 
Why,  would  he,  for  the  momentary  trick. 
Be  perdurably  fined  ?  —  0  Isabel ! 

Isah.    What  says  my  brother  ? 

Claud.  Death  is  a  fearful  thing. 

Isah.    And  shamed  life  a  hateful. 

Claud.    Ay,  but  to  die,  and  go  we  know  not  where ; 
To  lie  in  cold  obstruction,  and  to  rot ; 
This  sensible  warm  motion  to  become 
A  kneaded  clod;  and  the  delighted  spirit 
To  bathe  in  fiery  floods,  or  to  reside 
In  thrilling  regions  of  thick-ribbed  ice; 
To  be  imprisoned  in  the  viewless  winds, 
And  blown  with  restless  violence  round  about 
The  pendent  world ;  or  to  be  worse  than  worst 
Of  those,  that  lawless  and  incertain  thoughts 
Imagine  howling  !  —  'tis  too  horrible  ! 
The  weariest  and  most  loathed  worldly  life, 
That  age,  ache,  penury,  imprisonment 
Can  lay  on  nature,  is  a  paradise 
To  what  we  fear  of  death. 

Isah.    Alas  !  alas  ! 

Claud.  Sweet  sister,  let  me  live; 

What  sin  you  do  to  save  a  brother's  life, 
Nature  dispenses  with  the  deed  so  far, 
That  it  becomes  a  virtue. 

Isah.  0,  you  beast! 

0,  faithless  coward !  0,  dishonest  wretch ! 
Wilt  thou  be  made  a  man  out  of  my  vice  ? 
Is't  not  a  kind  of  incest  to  take  life 
From  thine  own  sister's  shame?     What  should  I  thmk  "^ 
Heaven  shield,  my  mother  played  my  father  fair? 
For  such  a  warped  slip  of  wilderness 
Ne'er  issued  from  his  blood.     Take  my  defiance: 
Die;  perish!     Might  but  my  bending  down 
Reprieve  thee  from  thy  fate,  it  should  proceed: 
I'll  pray  a  thousand  prayers  for  thy  death, 
No  word  to  save  thee. 

Claud.    Nay,  hear  me,  Isabel. 

Vol.  L  — 19  z 


290  MEASURE   FOR   MEASURE.     [Act  ill, 

Isah '  0,  fie,  fie,  ne  ! 

Thy  sin's  not  accidental,  but  a  trade: 
Mercy  to  thee  would  prove  itself  a  bawd : 
'Tis  beet  that  thou  diest  quickly.  [^Cromp 

Claud.  0  hear  me,  Isabella. 

Re-enter  Duke. 

DiiJce.    Vouchsafe  a  word,  young  sister,  but  one  Tvord. 

Isab.    What  is  your  will  ? 

Duke.  Might  you  dispense  with  your  leisure,  I  would 
by  and  by  have  some  speech  with  you :  the  satisfaction  I 
would  require,  is  likewise  jonr  own  benefit. 

Isah.  I  have  no  superfluous  leisure ;  rny  stay  must  be 
stolen  out  of  other  affairs ;  but  I  will  attend  you  a  while. 

Duke.  [To  Claudio,  aside.^  Son,  I  have  overheard  what 
hath  passed  between  you  and  your  sister.  Angelo  had  never 
the  purpose  to  corrupt  her ;  only  he  hath  made  an  essay  of 
her  virtue,  to  practise  his  judgment  with  the  disposition  of 
natures  :  she,  having  the  truth  of  honor  in  her,  hath  made 
him  that  gi'acious  denial  which  he  is  most  glad  to  receive : 
I  am  confessor  to  Angelo,  and  I  know  this  to  be  true  :  there- 
fore prepare  yourself  to  death :  Do  not  satisfy  your  resolu- 
tion with  hopes  that  are  fallible :  to-morrow  you  must  die ; 
go  to  your  knees,  and  make  ready. 

Claud.  Let  me  ask  my  sister  pardon.  I  am  so  out  of 
love  w^th  life,  that  I  will  sue  to  be  rid  of  it. 

T)uke.    Hold  you  there :  Farewell.  [Exit  Claudio. 

Re-enter  Provost. 

Provost,  a  word  with  you. 

Prov.    What's  your  will,  father  ? 

Duke.  That  now  you  are  come,  you  will  be  gone :  leave 
me  awhile  with  the  maid ;  my  mind  promises  with  my  habit, 
no  loss  shall  touch  her  by  my  company. 

Prov.    In  good  time.  [Exit  Provost. 

Duke.  The  hand  that  hath  made  you  fair,  hath  made  you 
good :  the  goodness,  that  is  cheap  in  beauty,  makes  beauty 
brief  in  goodness ;  but  grace,  being  the  soul  of  your  com- 
plexion, should  keep  the  body  of  it  ever  fair.  The  assault 
that  Angelo  hath  made  to  you,  fortune  hath  conveyed  to  my 
understanding  ;  and,  but  that  frailty  hath  examples  for  his 
falling,  I  should  wonder  at  Angelo.  How  would  you  do  to 
contend  this  substitute,  and  to  save  your  brother  ? 

Imh.  I  am  now  going  to  resolve  him ;  I  had  rather  my 
brother  die  by  the  law,  than  my  son  should  be  unlawfully 
Dorn.     But  0,  how  much  is    the    good  duke    deceived   in 


Act  TIL]     MEASURE   FOR   MEASURE  291 

Angelo !  If  ever  he  return,  and  I  can  speak  to  him,  I  will 
open  mj  lips  in  vain,  or  discover  his  govpvnroent. 

Duke.  That  shall  not  be  much  amiss :  yet,  as  the  mattei 
now  stands,  he  will  avoid  your  accusation ;  he  made  trial  of 
you  only.  —  Therefore  fasten  your  ear  on  my  advisings  ;  to 
the  love  I  have  in  doing  good,  a  remedy  presents  itself.  I  do 
make  myself  believe,  that  you  may  most  uprighteously  do  a 
poor  wronged  lady  a  merited  benefit ;  redeem  your  brother 
from  the  angry  law ;  do  no  stain  to  your  own  gracious  per- 
son ;  and  much  please  the  absent  duke,  if,  peradventure,  he 
shall  ever  return  to  have  hearing  on  this  business. 

Isab.  Let  me  hear  you  speak  further ;  I  have  spirit  to  do 
any  thing  that  appears  not  foul  in  the  truth  of  my  spirit. 

Duke.  Virtue  is  bold,  and  goodness  never  fearful.  Have 
you  not  heard  speak  of  jNIariana,  the  sister  of  Frederick, 
the  great  soldier,  who  miscarried  at  sea  ? 

Isab.  I  have  heard  of  the  lady,  and  good  words  went  with 
her  name. 

Duke.  Her  should  this  Angelo  have  married  ;  was  affi- 
anced to  her  by  oath,  and  the  nuptial  appointed ;  between 
which  time  of  the  contract,  and  limit  of  the  solemnity,  her 
brother  Frederick  was  wrecked  at  sea,  having  in  that 
perished  vessel  the  dowry  of  his  sister.  But  mark  how 
heavily  this  befell  the  poor  gentlewoman :  there  she  lost  a 
noble  and  renowned  brother,  in  his  love  toward  her  ever 
most  kind  and  natural :  with  him  the  portion  and  sinew  of 
her  fortune,  her  marriage  dowry  ;  with  both,  her  combinate 
husband,  this  well-seeming  Angelo. 

Isab.    Can  this  be  so  ?     Did  Angelo  so  leave  her  ? 

Duke.  Left  her  in  her  tears,  and  dried  not  one  of  them 
with  his  comfort ;  swallowed  his  vows  whole,  pretending,  in 
her,  discoveries  of  dishonor :  in  few,  bestowed  her  on  her  own 
lamentation,  which  she  yet  wears  for  his  sake ;  and  he,  a 
marble  to  her  tears,  is  washed  with  them,  but  relents  not. 

Isab.  What  a  merit  were  it  in  death,  to  take  this  poor 
maid  from  the  world  !  What  corruption  in  this  life,  that  it 
will  let  this  man  live  !  — But  how  out  of  this  can  she  avail  ? 

Duke.  It  is  a  rupture  that  you  may  easily  heal ;  and  the 
cure  of  it  not  only  saves  your  brother,  but  keeps  you  from 
dishonor  in  doing  it. 

Isab.    Show  me  how,  good  father. 

Duke.  This  fore-named  maid  hath  yet  in  her  the  conti- 
nuance of  her  first  aifection ;  his  unjust  unkindness,  that 
in  all  reason  should  have  quenched  her  love,  hath,  like  an 
impediment  in  the  current,  made  it  more  violent  and  unruly. 
Go  you  to  Angelo .  answer  his  requiring  with  a  plausible 


292  MExVSURE    FOR    MEASURE.     [Act  III 

obedience;  agree  with  his  deinaiuls  to  the  p^int:  only  refei 
yourself  to  this  advantage,  —  first,  that  your  stay  with  him 
may  not  be  long ;  that  the  time  may  have  all  shadow  and 
silence  in  it ;  and  the  place  answer  to  convenience  :  this 
being  granted  in  course,  now  follows  all.  We  shall  advise 
this  wronged  maid  to  stead  up  your  appointment,  go  in  your 
place  ;  if  the  encounter  acknowledge  itself  hereafter,  it  may 
compel  him  to  her  recompense :  and  here,  by  this,  is  your 
brother  saved,  your  honor  untainted,  the  poor  Mariana 
advantaged,  and  the  corrupt  deputy  scaled.  The  maid  will 
I  frame,  and  make  fit  for  his  attempt.  If  you  think  well 
to  carry  this  as  you  may,  the  doubleness  of  the  benefit 
defends  the  deceit  from  reproof.     What  think  you  of  it  ? 

Isah.  The  image  of  it  gives  me  content  already ;  and,  I 
trust,  it  will  grow  to  a  most  prosperous  perfection. 

Duke.  It  lies  much  in  your  holding  up :  Haste  you 
speedily  to  Angelo ;  if  for  this  night  he  entreat  you  to  his 
bed,  give  him  promise  of  satisfaction.  I  will  presently  to 
St.  Luke's ;  there,  at  the  moated  grange,  resides  this  dejected 
Mariana :  at  that  place  call  upon  me ;  and  despatch  with 
Angelo,  that  it  may  be  quickly. 

Isah.  I  thank  you  for  this  comfort :  fare  you  well,  good 
father.  \JExe^mt  severally. 

SCENE  11.      The  Street  before  the  Prison. 
Mnter  Duke,  as  a  friar  ;  to  him  Elbow,  Clown,  and  Officers. 

^Ib.  Nay,  if  there  be  no  remedy  for  it,  but  that  you  will 
needs  buy  and  sell  men  and  women  like  beasts,  we  shall  have 
all  the  world  drink  brown  and  white  bastard. 

Dulce.    0,  Heavens !     Wha.t  stuff  is  here  ? 

Clo.  'Twas  never  merry  world,  since,  of  two  usuries,  the 
merriest  was  put  down,  and  the  worser  allowed,  by  order  of 
law,  a  furred  gown  to  keep  him  warm ;  and  furred  with  fox 
and  lamb-skins  too,  to  signify,  that  craft,  being  richer  than 
innocency,  stands  for  the  facing. 

Ulb.   Come  your  way,  sir;  —  bless  you,  good  father  friar. 

Duke.  And  you,  good  brother  father :  what  offence  hath 
this  man  made  you,  sir  ? 

£lb.  Marry,  sir,  he  hath  offended  the  law ;  and,  sir,  we 
take  him  to  be  a  thief,  too,  sir  ;  for  we  have  found  upon  him, 
sir,  a  strange  pick-lock,  which  we  have  sent  to  the  deputy. 

Duke.    Fie,  sirrah ;  a  bawd,  a  Avicked  bawd ! 
The  evil  that  thou  causest  to  be  done. 
That  is  thy  means  to  live :  do  thou  but  think, 


ActITI.J    measure    for    measure.  293 

What  'tis  to  cram  a  maw,  or  clothe  a  back, 

From  such  a  filthy  vice :  say  to  thyself, — 

From  their  abominable  and  beastly  touches 

I  drink,  I  eat,  array  myself,  and  live. 

Canst  thou  believe  thy  living  is  a  life. 

So  stinkingly  depending  ?     Go,  mend,  go,  mend. 

Clo.  Indeed,  it  does  stink  in  some  sort,  sir ;  but  yet,  sir^ 
I  would  prove 

Duke.   Nay,  if  the  devil  have  given  thee  proofs  for  sin. 
Thou  wilt  prove  his.     Take  him  to  prison,   officer ; 
Correction  and  instruction  must  both  work, 
Ere  this  rude  beast  will  profit. 

Ulb.  He  must  before  the  deputy,  sir ;  he  has  giveii  him 
warning ;  the  deputy  cannot  abide  a  whoremaster :  if  he  be 
a  whoremonger,  and  comes  before  him,  he  were  as  good  go 
a  mile  on  his  errand. 

Duke.  That  we  were  all,  as  some  would  seem  to  be, 
Free  from  our  faults,  as  faults  from  seeming,  free ! 

Enter  Lucio. 

Elh.    His  neck  will  come  to  your  waist,  a  cord,  sir. 

Clo.  I  spy  comfort ;  I  cry,  bail :  here's  a  gentleman,  and 
a  friend  of  mine. 

Lucio.  How  now,  noble  Pompey  ?  What,  at  the  heels  of 
Csesar  ?  Art  thou  led  in  triumph  ?  What,  is  there  none  of 
Pygmalion's  images,  newly-made  woman,  to  be  had  now,  for 
putting  the  hand  in  the  pocket  and  extracting  it  clutched  ? 
What  reply?  Ha?  What  say'st  thou  to  this  tune,  matter, 
and  method  ?  Is't  not  drowned  i'  the  last  rain  ?  Ha  ? 
What  say'st  thou,  trot?  Is  the  world  as  it  was,  man? 
Which  is  the  way  ?  Is  it  sad,  and  few  words  ?  Or  how  ? 
The  trick  of  it  ? 

Duke.    Still  thus,  and  thus  !     Still  worse  ! 

Lucio.  How  doth  my  dear  morsel,  thy  mistress?  Pro- 
cures she  still  ?     Ha  ? 

Clo.  Troth,  sir,  she  hath  eaten  up  all  her  beef,  and  she 
is  hd^self  in  the  tub. 

Lucio.  Why,  'tis  good ;  it  is  the  right  of  it ;  it  must  be 
80  —  ever  your  fresh  whore,  and  your  powdered  bawd :  An 
unshunned  consequence ;  it  must  be  so :  art  going  to  prison, 
Pompey  ? 

Clo.    Yes,  faith,  sir. 

Lucio.  Why,  'tis  net  amiss,  Pompey :  farewell :  go ;  say, 
I  sent  thee  thither.     For  debt,  Pompey  ?     Or  how  ? 

Elh.    For  being  a  bawd,  for  being  a  bawd. 

Lucio.  Well,  then,  imprison  him  :  if  imprisonment  be  tho 
z  *  ( 


294  M  E  A  S  U  11 E   FOR    iM  E  A  S  U II E .     [Act  III 

due  of  a  bawd,  why,  'tis  his  right :  bawd  is  he,  doubtless, 
and  of  antiquity  too  ;  bawd-born.  Farewell,  good  Pompey: 
commend  me  to  the  prison,  Pompey ;  you  will  turn  good 
husband  now,  Pompey ;  you  will  keep  the  house. 

Clo.    I  hope,  sir,  your  good  worship  will  be  my  bail. 

Lucio.  No,  indeed,  will  I  not,  Pompey;  it  is  not  the  wear. 
I  will  pray,  Pompey,  to  increase  your  bondage :  if  you  take 
it  not  patiently,  why  your  mettle  is  the  more :  adieu,  trusty 
Pompey. — Bless  you,  friar. 

Duke.    And  you. 

Lucio.    Does  Bridget  paint  still,  Pompey  ?     Ha  ? 

Elb.    Come  your  ways,  sir ;  come. 

Clo.    You  will  not  bail  me  then,  sir  ? 

Lucio.  Then,  Pompey  ?  Nor  now. — What  news  abroad, 
friar  ?     What  news  ? 

Lib.    Come  your  ways,  sir ;  come. 

Lucio.    Go, —  to  kennel,  Pompey,  go; 

[Exeunt  Elbow,  Clown,  aiid  Officers. 
What  news,  friar,  of  the  duke  ? 

Luke.    I  know  none :   Can  you  tell  me  of  any  ? 

Lucio.  Some  say,  he  is  with  the  emperor  of  Russia ; 
other  some,  he  is  in  Rome :  but  where  is  he,  think  you  ? 

Duke.  I  know  not  where :  but  wheresoever,  I  wish  him 
well. 

Lucio.  It  was  a  mad,  fantastical  trick  of  him,  to  steal 
from  the  state,  and  usurp  the  beggary  he  was  never  born  to. 
Lord  Angelo  dukes  it  well  in  his  absence ;  he  puts  trans- 
gression to't. 

Duke.    He  does  well  in't. 

Lucio.  A  little  more  lenity  to  lechery  would  do  no  harm 
in  him  :  something  too  crabbed  that  way,  friar. 

Duke.    It  is  too  general  a  vice,  and  severity  must  cure  it. 

Lucio.  Yes,  in  good  sooth,  the  vice  is  of  a  great  kin- 
dred ;  it  is  Avell  allied  :  but  it  is  impossible  to  extirp  it  quite, 
friar,  till  eating  and  drinking  be  put  down.  They  say,  this 
Angelo  was  not  made  by  man  and  woman,  after  the  down- 
right way  of  creation :  is  it  true,  think  you  ? 

Duke.    How  should  he  be  made,  then  ? 

Lucio.  Some  report  a  sea-maid  spawned  him : — some  that 
he  was  begot  between  two  stock-fishes  :  —  but  it  is  certain, 
that  when  he  makes  water,  his  urine  is  congealed  ice :  that 
I  know  to  be  true :  and  he  is  a  motion  ungenerative,  that's 
infallible. 

Duke.    You  are  pleasant,  sir,  and  speak  apace. 

Lucio  Why,  what  a  ruthless  thing  is  this  in  hira,  for  the 
rebellion  of  a  cod-piece,  to  take  away  the  life  of  a  manV 


Act  III.]     MEASURE   FOR   MEASURE.  29c 

Would  the  duke,  that  is  absent,  have  done  this  ?  Ere  he 
W3uld  have  hanged  a  man  for  the  getting  a  handled  bas- 
tards, he  woukl  have  paid  for  the  nursing  of  a  thousand:  he 
had  some  feeling  of  the  sport ;  he  knew  the  service,  and  that 
instructed  him  to  mercj. 

Duke.  I  never  heard  the  absent  duke  much  detected  for 
women ;  he  was  not  inclined  that  waj. 

Lucio.    0,  sir,  you  are  deceived. 

Duke.    'Tis  not  possible. 

Lucio.  Who  ?  Not  the  duke  ?  Yes,  your  beggar  of 
fifty  ;  —  and  his  use  was,  to  put  a  ducat  in  her  clackdish  : 
the  duke  had  crotchets  in  him :  he  would  be  drunk  too ;  and 
let  me  inform  you. 

Duke.    You  do  him  wrong,  surely. 

Lucio.  Sir,  I  was  an  inward  of  his :  a  shy  fellow  was 
the  duke :  and,  I  believe,  I  know  the  cause  of  his  with- 
drawing. 

Duke.    What,  I  pr'ythee,  might  be  the  cause  ? 

Lucio.    No,  —  pardon  ;  —  'tis   a  secret  must   be    locked 
within  the  teeth  and  the  lips :  but  this  I  can  let  you  under 
stand,  — The  greater  file  of  the  subject  held  the  duke  to  be 
wise. 

Duke.    Wise  ?     Why,  no  question  but  he  was. 

Lucio.   A  very  superficial,  ignorant,  unweighing  fellow. 

Duke.  Either  this  is  envy  in  you,  folly,  or  mistaking ; 
the  very  stream  of  his  life,  and  the  business  he  hath  helmed, 
must,  upon  a  warranted  need,  give  him  a  better  proclama- 
tion. Let  him  be  but  testimonied  in  his  own  bringings  forth, 
and  he  shall  appear  to  the  envious,  a  scholar,  a  statesman, 
and  a  soldier:  therefore,  you  speak  unskilfully,  or,  if  your 
knowledge  be  more,  it  is  much  darkened  in  your  malice. 

Lucio.    Sir,  I  know  him,  and  I  love  him. 

Duke.  Love  talks  with  better  knowledge,  and  knowledge 
with  dearer  love. 

Lucio.    Come,  sir,  I  know  what  I  know. 

Duke.  I  can  hardly  believe  that,  since  you  know  not 
what  you  speak.  But,  if  ever  the  duke  return,  (as  our  pray- 
ers are  he  may,)  let  me  desire  you  to  make  your  answer 
before  him :  if  it  be  honest  you  have  spoke,  you  have  cour- 
age to  maintain  it :  I  am  bound  to  call  upon  you ;  and,  I 
pray  you,  your  name  ? 

Lucio.    Sir,  my  name  is  Lucio ;  well  known  to  the  duke. 

Duke.  He  shall  know  you  better,  sir,  if  I  may  live  to  re- 
port you. 

Lucio.    I  fear  you  not. 

Duke.    0,  you  hope  the  duke  will  return  no  more  ;  or  you 


1'96  MEASUFvE    FOR    MEASURE.     floT  III 

imagine  me  too  unhurtful  an  opposite.     But,  indeed,  I  can 
do  you  little  harm  ;  you'll  forswear  this  again. 

Lucio.  I'll  be  hanged  first :  thou  art  deceived  in  me,  friar. 
But  no  more  of  this ;  canst  thou  tell  if  Claudio  die  to-morrow, 
or  no? 

Duke.    Why  should  he  die,  sir  ? 

Lucio.  "Why  ?  For  filling  a  bottle  with  a  tun-dish.  I 
would  the  duke,  we  talk  of,  were  returned  again :  this  un 
genitured  agent  will  unpeople  the  province  with  continency  ; 
sparrows  must  not  build  in  his  house-eaves,  because  they  are 
lecherous.  The  duke  yet  would  have  dark  deeds  darkly  an- 
swered ;  he  would  never  bring  them  to  light :  would  he  were 
returned  !  Marry,  this  Claudio  is  condemned  for  untruss- 
ing.  Farewell,  good  friar ;  I  pr'ythee,  pray  for  me.  The 
duke,  I  say  to  thee  again,  would  eat  mutton  on  Fridays. 
He's  now  past  it ;  yet,  and  I  say  to  thee,  he  would  mouth 
with  a  beggar,  though  she  smelt  broAvn  bread  and  garlic : 
say,  that  I  said  so.     Farewell.  [Exit. 

Duke.    No  might  nor  greatness  in  mortality 
Can  censure  'scape :  back-wounding  calumny 
The  whitest  virtue  strikes  :  what  king  so  strong 
Can  tie  the  gall  up  in  the  slanderous  tongue  ? 
But  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  EscALiis,  Provost,  Bawd,  and  Officers. 

Escal.    Go,  away  with  her  to  prison. 

Bawd.  Good  my  lord,  be  good  to  me ;  your  honor  is 
accounted  a  merciful  man :  good  my  lord. 

Escal,  Double  and  treble  admonition,  and  still  forfeit  in 
the  same  kind?  This  would  make  mercy  swear,  and  play 
the  tyrant. 

Prov.  A  bawd  of  eleven  years  continuance,  may  it  please 
your  honor. 

Bawd.  My  lord,  this  is  one  Lucio's  information  against 
me:  mistress  Kate  Keep-down  was  with  child  by  him  in  the 
duke's  time  ;  he  promised  her  marriage  ;  his  child  is  a  year 
and  a  quarter  old,  come  Philip  and  Jacob  :  I  have  kept  it 
myself ;  and  see  how  he  goes  about  to  abuse  me. 

Escal.  That  fellow  is  a  fellow  of  much  license : — let  him 
be  called  before  us.  —  Away  with  her  to  prison:  go  to;  no 
more  words.  \_Exeunt  Bawd  and  Officers.]  Provost,  my 
brother  Angelo  will  not  be  altered ;  Claudio  must  die  to- 
morrow :  let  him  be  furnished  with  divines,  and  have  all 
charitable  preparation :  if  my  brother  wrought  by  my  pity, 
it  should  not  be  so  with  him. 


ActIII.J    measure    for   measure.  297 

Prov.  So  please  you,  this  friar  hath  been  with  him,  and 
advised  him  for  the  entertainment  of  death. 

Escal.    Good  even,  good  father. 

Duke.    Bliss  and  goodness  on  you ! 

Escal.    Of  whence  are  you  ? 

Duke.    Not  of  this  country,  though  my  chance  is  now 
To  use  it  for  my  time :  I  am  a  brother 
Of  gracious  order  late  come  from  the  see. 
In  special  business  from  his  holiness. 

Escal.    What  news  abroad  i'  the  world  ? 

Duke.  None,  but  that  there  is  so  great  a  fever  on  good 
ness,  that  the  dissolution  of  it  must  cure  it ;  novelty  is  only 
in  request ;  and  it  is  as  dangerous  to  be  aged  in  any  kind 
of  course,  as  it  is  virtuous  to  be  constant  in  any  undertaking. 
There  is  scarce  truth  enough  alive  to  make  societies  secure; 
but  security  enough  to  make  fellowships  accursed :  much 
upon  this  riddle  runs  the  wisdom  of  the  world.  This  news 
is  old  enough,  yet  it  is  every  day's  news.  I  pray  you,  sir, 
of  what  disposition  was  the  duke  ? 

Escal.  One  that,  above  all  other  strifes,  contended  espe- 
cially to  know  himself. 

Duke.    What  pleasure  was  he  given  to  ? 

Escal.  Rather  rejoicing  to  see  another  merry,  than  merry 
at  any  thing  which  professed  to  make  him  rejoice ;  a  gentle- 
man of  all  temperance.  But  leave  we  him  to  his  events, 
with  a  prayer  it  may  prove  prosperous ;  and  let  me  dosire 
to  know  how  you  find  Claudio  prepared  I  am  made  to  un- 
derstand that  you  have  lent  him  visitation. 

Duke.  He  professes  to  have  received  no  sinister  measure 
from  his  judge,  but  most  willingly  humbles  himself  to  the 
determination  of  justice :  yet  had  he  framed  to  himself,  by 
the  instruction  of  his  frailty,  many  deceiving  promises  of 
life,  which  I,  by  my  good  leisure,  have  discredited  to  him ; 
and  now  is  he  resolved  to  die. 

Escal.  You  have  paid  the  heavens  your  function,  and  the 
prisoner  the  very  debt  of  your  calling.  I  have  labored  for 
the  poor  gentleman,  to  the  extremest  shqre  of  my  modesty ; 
but  my  brother  justice  have  I  found  so  severe,  that  he  hath 
forced  me  to  tell  him,  he  is  indeed — justice. 

Duke.  If  his  own  life  answer  the  straitness  of  his  pro- 
ceeding, it  shall  become  him  well ;  wherein  if  he  chance 
to  fail,  he  hath  sentenced  himself. 

Escal.    I  am  going  to  visit  the  prisoner  :  fare  you  well. 

Duke.    Peace  be  with  you ! 

[^Exeunt  EscALUS  and  Provost. 
He,   who  the  sword  of  Heaven  will  bear. 
Should  be  as  holy  as  severe; 


298  MEASURE   FOR   MEASURE      ("Act  IV 

Puttcrn  in  himself  to  know, 

Grace  to  stand,  and  virtue  go ; 

More  nor  less  to  others  paying, 

Than  by  self-offences  weighing. 

Shame  to  him,  Avhose  cruel  striking 

Kills  for  faults  of  his  own  liking ! 

Twice  treble  shame  on  Angelo, 

To  weed  my  vice,  and  let  his  grow. 

0,  what  may  man  within  him  hide. 

Though  angel  on  the  outward  side ! 

How  may  likeness,  made  in  crimes, 

Mocking,  practise  on  the  times. 

To  draw  with  idle  spiders'  stings 

Most  ponderous  and  substantial  things ! 

Craft  against  vice  I  must  apply : 

With  Angelo  to-night  shall  lie 

His  old  betrothed,  but  despised ; 

So  disguise  shall,  by  the  disguised, 

Pay  with  falsehood  false  exacting, 

And  perform  an  old  contracting.  lExit. 


ACT   lY. 

SCENE  I.     A  Room  in  Mariana's  House. 
Mariana  discovered  sitting ;  a  Boy  si^iging, 

SONG. 

Take,  oh  take  tJiose  lips  away^ 

That  so  sweetly  toere  forsivorn ; 
And  those  eyes,  the  hreah  of  day^ 
Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn: 
But  my  kisses  bring  again, 

bring  again, 
Seals  of 'love,  but  sealed  in  vain, 

sealed  in  vain. 

Mart.    Break  off  thy  song,  and  haste  thee  quick  away ; 
Here  comes  a  man  of  comfort,  whose  advice 
Hath  often  stilled  my  brawling  discontent. —      [Exit  Boy 

Enter  Duke. 

I  cry  you  mercy,  sir,  and  well  could  wish 
You  had  not  found  me  here  so  musical ; 


ActIV.J     measure    for    measure.  299 

Let  me  excuse  me,  and  believe  me  so, — 

My  mirth  is  much  displeased,  but  pleased  my  woe. 

Duke.    'Tis  good :  though  music  oft  hath  such  a  charm, 
To  make  bad  good,  and  good  provoke  to  harm. 
I  pray  you,  tell  me,  hath  any  body  inquired  for  me  here 
to-day  ?    Much  upon  this  time  have  I  promised  here  to  meet. 

Mart.  You  have  not  been  inquired  after.  I  have  sat 
here  all  day. 

Enter  Isabella. 

Duke.  I  do  constantly  believe  you :  —  The  time  is  come, 
even  now.  I  shall  crave  your  forbearance  a  little ;  may 
be,  I  will  call  upon  you  anon,  for  some  advantage  to  your- 
self. 

Mari.    I  am  always  bound  to  you.  [Exit, 

Duke.    Very  well  met,  and  welcome. 
What  is  the  news  from  this  good  deputy? 

Isah.    He  hath  a  garden  circummured  with  brick, 
Whose  western  side  is  with  a  vineyard  backed ; 
And  to  that  vineyard  is  a  planched  gate, 
That  makes  his  opening  with  this  bigger  key  : 
This  other  doth  command  a  little  door. 
Which  from  the  vineyard  to  the  garden  leads ; 
There  have  I  made  my  promise  to  call  on  him, 
Upon  the  heavy  middle  of  the  night. 

Duke.    But  shall  you  on  your  knowledge  find  this  way  ? 

Isah.    I  have  ta'en  a  due  and  wary  note  upon't; 
With  whispering  and  most  guilty  diligence, 
In  action  all  of  precept,  he  did  show  me 
The  way  twice  o'er. 

Duke.  Are  there  no  other  tokens 

Between  you  'greed,  concerning  her  observance? 

Isah.    No,  none,  but  only  a  repair  i'  the  dark; 
And  that  I  have  possessed  him,  my  most  stay 
Can  be  but  brief;  for  I  have  made  him  know, 
I  have  a  servant  comes  with  me  alonsr. 
That  stays  upon  me ;  whose  persuasion  is, 
I  come  about  my  brother. 

Duke.  'Tis  well  borne  up. 

1  have  not  yet  made  known  to  Mariana 
A  word  of  this :  —  What,  ho  !  within  !  come  forth  ! 

Re-enter  Mariana. 

I  pray  you,  be  acquainted  Avith  this  maid ; 
She  come?  to  do  you  good. 

Isah.  I  do  desire  the  like. 


300  MEASURE    FOR    MEASURE.     [Act  IV. 

Duke.    Do  y  ou  persuade  yourself  that  I  respect  you  ? 

Mari.    Good  friar,  I  know  you  do ;  and  have  found  it. 

Buhe.    Take  then  this  your  companion  by  the  hand, 
Who  hath  a  story  ready  for  your  ear: 
I  shall  attend  your  leisure  ;  but  make  haste ; 
The  vaporous  night  approaches. 

Mari.  Will't  please  you  walk  aside  ? 

\_Exe^mt  Mariana  and  Isabella. 

Duke.    0  place  and  greatness,  millions  of  false  eyes 
Are  stuck  upon  thee!     Volumes  of  report 
Run  with  these  false  and  most  contrarious  quests 
Upon  thy  doings!     Thousand  'scapes  of  wit 
Make  thee  the  father  of  their  idle  dream. 
And  rack  thee  in  their  fancies  ! — Welcome  ! — How  agreed  ? 

Re-enter  Mariana  and  Isabella. 

Imh.    She'll  take  the  enterprise  upon  her,  father, 
If  you  advise  it. 

l)uke.  It  is  not  my  consent, 

But  my  entreaty  too. 

Imb.  Little  have  you  to  say, 

"When  you  depart  from  him,  but,  soft  and  low, 
Jlemember  now  ray  brother. 

Mari.  Fear  me  not. 

Duke.    Nor,  gentle  daughter,  fear  you  not  at  all : 
He  is  your  husband  on  a  pre-contract : 
To  bring  you  thus  together,   'tis  no  sin ; 
Sith  that  the  justice  of  your  title  to  him 
Doth  flourish  the  deceit.     Come,  let  us  go; 
Our  corn's  to  reap,  for  yet  our  tilth's  to  sow. 

[Exeunt, 

SCENE  II.     A  Room  in  the  Prison. 
Enter  Provost  and  Clown. 

Prov.    Come  hither,  sirrah  :  can  you  cut  oif  a  man's  head  ? 

Clo.  If  the  man  be  a  bachelor,  sir,  I  can :  but  if  he  be 
a  married  man,  he  is  his  wife's  head,  and  I  can  never  cut 
oif  a  woman's  head. 

Prov.  Co)ue,  sir,  leave  me  your  snatches,  and  yield  me  a 
direct  answer.  To-morrow  morning  are  to  die  Claudio  and 
Barnardinc  :  here  is  in  our  prison  a  common  executioner, 
who  in  his  office  lacks  a  helper :  if  you  will  take  it  on  you 
to  assist  him,  it  shall  redeem  you  from  your  gyves ;  if  not, 
you  shall  have  your  full  time  of  imprisonment,  acd  your 


Act  IV.]     MEASURE    FOR    MEASURE.  301 

ieliverance  with  an  unpiticd  vrbipping ;  for  you  have  been 
a  notorious  bawd. 

Clo.  Sir,  I  have  been  an  unhi-wful  bawd,  time  out  of  mind ; 
but  jet  I  will  be  content  to  be  a  lawful  hangman.  I  would 
be  glad  to  receive  some  instruction  from  m^^  fellow  partner. 

Prov.    What  ho,  Abhorson  !  Where's  Abhorson,  there  ? 

Enter  Abhorson. 

Abhor.    Do  you  call,  sir? 

Prov.  Sirrah,  here's  a  fellow  Avill  help  you  to-morrow  in 
your  execution :  If  you  think  it  meet,  compound  with  him 
by  the  year,  and  let  him  abide  here  with  you ;  if  not,  use 
him  for  the  present,  and  dismiss  him :  he  cannot  plead  hia 
estimation  with  you  ;  he  hath  been  a  bawd. 

Abhor.  A  bawd,  sir  ?  Fie  upon  him !  he  will  discredit  our 
mystery. 

Prov.  Go  to,  sir  :  you  weigh  equally ;  a  feather  will  turn 
the  scale.  [^JSxit. 

Clo.  Pray,  sir,  by  your  good  favor,  (for,  surely,  sir,  a 
good  favor  you  have,  but  that  you  have  a  hanging  look,)  do 
you  call,  sir,  your  occupation  a  mystery  ? 

Abhor.    Ay,  sir,  a  mystery. 

Clo.  Painting,  sir,  I  have  heard  say,  is  a  mystery ;  and 
your  whores,  sir,  being  members  of  my  occupation,  using 
painting,  do  prove  my  occupation  a  mystery :  but  what  mys- 
tery there  should  be  in  hanging,  if  I  should  be  hanged,  I 
cannot  imagine. 

Abhor.    Sir,  it  is  a  mystery. 

Clo.    Proof. 

Abhor.  Every  true  man's  apparel  fits  your  thief:  if  it 
be  too  little  for  your  thief,  your  true  man  thinks  it  big 
enough  ;  if  it  be  too  big  for  your  thief,  your  thief  thinks  it 
little  enough :  so  every  true  man's  apparel  fits  youi*  thief. 

Re-enter  Provost. 

Prov.    Are  you  agreed? 

Clo.  Sir,  I  will  serve  him ;  for  I  do  find,  your  hangman 
is  a  more  penitent  trade  than  your  bawd :  he  doth  oftener 
ask  forgiveness. 

Prov.  You,  sirrah,  provide  your  block  and  your  axe,  to- 
morrow four  o'clock. 

Abhor.  Come  on,  bawd  ;  I  will  instruct  thee  in  my  trade : 
follow. 

Clo.  I  do  desire  to  learn,  sir ;  and,  I  hope,  if  you  have 
occasion  to  use  me  for  your  own  turn,  you  shall  find  me 

2a 


S02  MEASUKE    FOll    MEASUKE.     [Act  IV 

yare ;  for,  truly,  sir,  for  your  kindness,  I  owe  you  a  good 
tui'n. 

Prov.    Call  hither  Barnardine  and  Claudio : 

\_E.vcunt  Clown  and  Abhorson. 
One  has  my  pity ;  not  a  jot  the  other, 
Being  a  murderer,  though  he  were  my  brother. 

Enter  Claudio. 

Look,  here's  the  warrant,   Claudio,  for  thy  death ; 
'Tis  now  dead  midnight,  and  by  eight  to-morrow 
Thou  must  be  made  immortal.     Where's  Barnardine  ? 

Claud.    As  fast  locked  up  in  sleep,  as  guiltless  labor 
When  it  lies  starkly  in  the  traveller's  bones : 
He  will  not  wake. 

Prov.  Who  can  do  good  on  him  ? 

Well,  go,  prepare  yourself.     But  hark,  what  noise? 

[^Knocking  within. 
Heaven  give  your  spirits  comfort !  [Exit  Claudio. 

By  and  by :  — 
I  hope  it  is  some  jpardon,  or  reprieve, 
For  the  most  gentle  Claudio. — Welcome,  father. 

Enter  Duke. 

PuJce.    The  best  and  wholesomest  spirits  of  the  night 
Envelop  you,  good  provost !     Who  called  here  of  late  ? 

Prov.    None,  since  the  curfew  rung. 

Duke.  Not  Isabel? 

Prov.    No. 

Puke.  They  will  then,  ere't  be  long. 

Prov.    What  comfort  is  for  Claudio  ? 

Puke.  There's  some  in  hope. 

Prov.    It  is  a  bitter  deputy. 

Duke.    Not  so,  not  so ;  his  life  is  paralleled 
Even  with  the  stroke  and  line  of  his  great  justice ; 
He  doth  with  holy  abstinence  subdue 
That  in  himself,  which  he  spurs  on  his  power 
To  qualify  in  others :  were  he  mealed 
\Vith  that  which  he  corrects,  then  were  he  tyrannous ; 
But  this  being  so,  he's  just.     Now  are  they  come. — 

[Knocking  rvithin. — Provost  goes  out. 
This  is  a  gentle  provost :  seldom  when 
The  steeled  gaoler  is  the  friend  of  men. — 
Mow  now  ?    What  noise  ?    That  spirit's  possessed  with  haste. 
That  wounds  the  unsisting  postern  with  these  strokes. 


ACT  IV.]     MEASURE    FOR    MEASURE.  303 

Provost  returns,  speahing  to  one  at  the  door. 

Prov.    There  he  must  stay,  until  the  oiEcer 
Arise  to  let  him  in ;  he  is  called  up. 

Duke.    Have  you  no  countermand  for  Claudio  yet, 
But  he  must  die  to-morrow? 

Prov.  None,  sir,  none. 

Puke.    As  near  the  dawning,  provost,  as  it  is 
You  shall  hear  more  ere  morning, 

Prov.  Happily, 

You  something  know ;   yet,  I  believe,  there  comes 
No  countermand ;  no  such  example  have  we : 
Besides,  upon  the  very  siege  of  justice 
Lord  Angelo  hath  to  the  public  ear 
Professed  the  contrary. 

Palter  a  Messenger. 

Puke.    This  is  his  lordship's  man. 

Prov.    And  here  comes  Claudio's  pardon. 

Mess.  My  lord  hath  sent  you  this  note ;  and  by  me  this 
further  charge,  that  you  swerve  not  from  the  smallest  article 
of  it,  neither  in  time,  matter,  or  other  circumstance.  Good 
morrow ;  for,  as  I  take  it,  it  is  almost  day. 

Prov.    I  shall  obey  him.  [Exit  Messenger. 

Puke.    This  is  his  pardon,  purchased  by  such  sin ; 

\_Aside. 
For  which  the  pardoner  himself  is  in : 
Hence  hath  offence  his  quick  celerity. 
When  it  is  borne  in  high  authority : 
When  vice  makes  mercy,  mercy's  so  extended. 
That  for  the  fault's  love,  is  the  offender  friended.— 
Now,  sir,  what  news? 

Prov.  I  told  you :  lord  Angelo,  belike,  thinking  me  re- 
miss in  mine  office,  awakens  me  with  this  unwonted  putting 
on ;  methinks,  strangely ;  for  he  hath  not  used  it  before. 

Puke.    Pray  you,  let's  hear. 

Prov.  [Reads.]  Whatsoever  you  may  hear  to  the  contrary, 
let  Claudio  he  executed  by  four  of  the  clock ;  and,  in  the 
afternoon,  Barnardine ;  for  my  better  satisfaction,  let  me 
have  Claudio's  head  sent  me  by  five.  Let  this  he  duly  per- 
formed ;  with  a  thought,  that  more  depends  on  it  than  zve 
must  yet  deliver.  Thus  fail  not  to  do  your  office,  as  you 
will  ansiver  it  at  your  peril. 
What  say  you  to  this,  sir? 

Puke.  What  is  that  Barnardine,  who  is  to  be  executed 
,n  the  afternoon  ? 


204  MEASUEK   FOR    MEASURE.     [Act  IV 

Prov.  A  Bohemian  born  ;  but  here  nursed  up  and  bred ; 
one  that  is  a  prisoner  nine  years  old. 

Duke.  How  came  it  that  the  absent  duke  had  not  either 
delivered  him  to  his  liberty,  or  executed  him  ?  I  have  heard 
it  was  ever  liis  manner  to  do  so. 

Prov.  His  friends  still  wrought  reprieves  for  him ;  and, 
indeed,  his  fact,  till  now  in  the  government  of  lord  Angelo, 
came  not  to  an  undoubtful  proof. 

Duke.    Is  it  now  apparent? 

Prov.    Most  manifest,  and  not  denied  by  himself. 

Duke.  Hath  he  borne  himself  penitently  in  prison  ?  How 
seems  he  to  be  touched  ? 

Prov.  A  man  that  apprehends'  death  no  more  dreadfully, 
but  as  a  drunken  sleep ;  careless,  reckless,  and  fearless  of 
what's  past,  present,  or  to  come ;  insensible  of  mortality, 
and  desperately  mortal. 

Duke.    He  wants  advice. 

Prov.  He  will  hear  none :  he  hath  evermore  had  the 
liberty  of  the  prison ;  give  him  leave  to  escape  hence,  he 
would  not ;  drunk  many  times  a  day,  if  not  many  days 
entirely  drunk.  We  have  very  often  awaked  him,  as  if  to 
carry  him  to  execution,  and  showed  him  a  seeming  warrant 
for  it :   it  hath  not  moved  him  at  all. 

Duke.  JNIore  of  him  anon.  There  is  written  in  your  brow, 
provost,  honesty  and  constancy :  if  I  read  it  not  truly,  my 
ancient  skill  beguiles  me :  but  in  the  boldness  of  my  cunning, 
I  will  lay  myself  in  hazard.  Claudio,  whom  here  you  have 
a  warrant  to  execute,  is  no  greater  forfeit  to  the  law  than 
Angelo  who  hath  sentenced  him  :  To  make  you  understand 
this  in  a  manifested  effect,  I  crave  but  four  days'  respite ; 
for  the  which  you  are  to  do  me  both  a  present  and  a  dan- 
gerous courtesy. 

Prov.    Pray,  sir,  in  what  ? 

Duke.    In  the  delaying  death. 

Prov.  Alack  !  how  may  I  do  it?  having  the  hour  limited; 
and  an  express  command,  under  penalty,  to  deliver  his  head 
in  the  view  of  Angelo  ?  I  may  make  my  case  as  Claudio's, 
to  cross  this  in  the  smallest. 

Duke.  By  the  vow  of  mine  order,  I  warrant  you,  if  my 
instructions  may  be  your  guide.  Let  this  Barnardine  be 
this  morning  executed,  and  his  head  borne  to  Angelo. 

Prov.  Angelo  hath  seen  them  both,  and  will  discover 
the  favor. 

Duke.  0,  death's  a  great  disguiser :  and  you  may  add  to 
it.  Shave  the  head,  and  tie  the  beard ;  and  say,  it  was  the 
desire  of  the  penitent  to  be  so  bared  before  his  death  :  You 


ActIY.]     measure    for    31  E  a  sure.  305 

know,  the  course  is  common.  If  any  thing  fall  to  you  upon 
this,  more  than  tha-nks  and  good  fortune,  by  the  saint  whom 
I  profess,  I  will  plead  against  it  with  my  life. 

Prov.    Pardon  me,  good  father;  it  is  against  my  oath. 

Duke.    Were  you  sworn  to  the  duke,  or  to  the  deputy  ? 

Prov.    To  him,  and  to  his  substitutes. 

Duke.  You  will  think  you  have  made  no  offence,  if  the 
duke  avouch  the  justice  of  your  dealing  ? 

Prov.    But  what  likelihood  is  in  that  ? 

Duke.  Not  a  resemblance,  but  a  certainty.  Yet  since  I 
see  you  fearful,  that  neither  my  coat,  integrity,  nor  my  per- 
suasion, can  with  ease  attempt  you,  I  will  go  further  than  I 
meant,  to  pluck  all  fears  out  of  you.  Look  you,  sir,  here 
is  the  hand  and  seal  of  the  duke.  You  know  the  character, 
I  doubt  not ;  and  the  signet  is  not  strange  to  you. 

Prov.    I  know  them  both. 

Duke.  The  contents  of  this  is  the  return  of  the  duke ; 
you  shall  anon  overread  it  at  your  pleasure  ;  where  you  shall 
find,  within  these  two  days,  he  will  be  here.  This  is  a  thing 
that  Angelo  knows  not ;  for  he  this  very  day  receives  letters 
of  strange  tenor ;  perchance,  of  the  duke's  death ;  per- 
chance, entering  into  some  monastery ;  but,  by  chance,  no- 
thing of  what  is  writ.  Look,  the  unfolding  star  calls  up 
the  shepherd.  Put  not  yourself  into  amazement,  how  these 
things  should  be  :  all  diflBculties  are  but  easy  when  they  are 
known.  Call  your  executioner,  and  off  with  Barnardine's 
head :  I  will  give  him  a  present  shrift,  and  advise  him  for  a 
better  place.  Yet  you  are  amazed ;  but  this  shall  absolutely 
resolve  you.     Come  away ;  it  is  almost  clear  dawn. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.     Another  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  Clown. 

Clo.  I  am  as  well  acquainted  here,  as  I  was  in  our  house 
of  profession :  one  would  think  it  were  mistress  Over-done's 
own  house,  for  here  be  many  of  her  old  customers.  First, 
here's  young  master  Rash  ;  he's  in  for  a  commodity  of  brown 
paper  and  old  ginger,  ninescore  and  seventeen  pounds;  of 
which  he  made  five  marks,  ready  money :  marry,  then,  gin- 
ger was  not  much  in  request,  for  the  old  women  were  all 
dead.  Then  is  there  here  one  master  Caper,  at  the  suit  of 
master  Three-pile,  the  mercer,  for  some  four  suits  of  peach- 
colored  satin,  which  now  peaches  him  a  beggar.  Then  have 
we  here  young  Dizy,  and  young  master  Deep-vow,  and  mas- 

Vol.  I.  — 20  2a* 


306  M  E  A  S  U  11 E    FOR    ]\I  E  A  S  U  K  E .     [Act  IV. 

ter  C(  pper-spur,  and  master  Starve-lackey  the  rapier  and 
dagger  man,  and  young  Drop-heir  that  killed  lusty  Pudding, 
and  master  Forthright  the  tilter,  and  brave  master  Shoe-tie 
the  great  traveller,  and  wild  Half-can  that  stabbed  Pots, 
and,  I  think,  forty  more  ;  all  great  doers  in  our  trade,  and 
are  now  for  the  Lord's  sake. 

Enter  Abhokson. 

Abhor,    Sirrah,  bring  Barnardine  hither. 

Clo.  Master  Barnardine  !  You  must  rise  and  be  hanged, 
master  Barnardine  ! 

Abhor.    What  ho,  Barnardine ! 

Barnar.  [  Within.']  A  pox  o'  your  throats  !  Who  makes 
that  noise  there  ?     What  are  you  ? 

Clo.  Your  friends,  sir ;  the  hangman :  you  must  be  so 
good,  sir,  to  rise  and  be  put  to  death. 

Barnar.  \_Within.'\  Away,  you  rogue,  away;  I  am 
sleepy. 

Abhor.    Tell  him,  he  must  awake,  and  that  quickly  too. 

Clo.  Pray,  master  Barnardine,  awake  till  you  are  exe- 
cuted, and  sleep  afterAvards. 

Abhor.    Go  in  to  him,  and  fetch  him  out. 

Clo.  He  is  coming,  sir,  he  is  coming ;  I  hear  his  straw 
rustle. 

Enter  Barnardine. 

Abhor.    Is  the  axe  upon  the  block,  sirrah  ? 

Clo.    Very  ready,  sir. 

Barnar.  How  now,  Abhorson?  What's  the  news  with 
you  ? 

Abhor.  Truly,  sir,  I  would  desire  you  to  clap  Into  your 
prayers ;  for,  look  you,  the  warrant's  come. 

Barnar.  You  rogue,  I  have  been  drinking  all  night ;  I 
am  not  fitted  for't. 

Clo.  0,  the  better,  sir ;  for  he  that  drinks  all  night,  and 
is  hanged  betimes  in  the  morning,  may  sleep  the  sounder 
all  the  next  day. 

Enter  Duke. 

A  bhor.  Look  you,  sir,  here  comes  your  ghostly  father ; 
do  we  jest  now,  think  you  ? 

Duke.  Sir,  induced  by  my  charity,  and  hearing  how 
hastily  you  are  to  depart,  I  am  come  to  advise  you,  comfort 
you,  and  pray  with  you. 

Barnar.  Friar,  not  I ;  I  have  been  drinking  hard  all 
uight.  and  I  will  have  more  time  to  prepare  me,  or  they 


■.it  ■ 


t 


toe-tit 


l!Ki 


> 


too, 


straw 


rsmtii 


ht.ancl 


iJUlli') 

comfort 


Act  IV.]     MEASURE    FOR    MEASURE  307 

shall  beat  out  mv  brains  with  billets :  I  will  not  consent  to 
die  this  day,  that's  certain. 

Duke.    0,  sir,  jou  must ;  and  therefore,  I  beseech  you, 
Look  forward  on  the  journey  you  shall  go, 

Barnar.    I  swear,  I  will  not  die  to-day  for  any  man's 
persuasion. 

Duke.    But  hear  you. 

Barnar.  Not  a  word ;  if  you  have  any  thing  to  say  to  me, 
come  to  my  ward ;  for  thence  will  not  I  to-day.  \_Exit. 

Enter  Provost. 

Duke.    Unfit  to  live,  or  die :   0,  gravel  heart !  — 
After  him,  fellows ;  bring  him  to  the  block. 

[^Exeunt  Abhorson  and  Clown. 

Prov.    Now,  sir,  how  do  you  find  the  prisoner? 

Duke.    A  creature  unprepared,  unmeet  for  death; 
And  to  transport  him  in  the  mind  he  is, 
Were  damnable, 

Prov.  Here  in  the  prison,  father, 

There  died  this  morning  of  a  cruel  fever 
One  Ragozine,  a  most  notorious  pirate, 
A  man  of  Claudio's  years ;  his  beard  and  head 
Just  of  his  color :  what  if  we  do  omit 
This  reprobate,  till  he  were  well  inclined, 
And  satisfy  the  deputy  with  the  visage 
Of  Ragozine,  more  like  to  Claudio  ? 

Duke.    0,   'tis  an  accident  that  Heaven  provides ! 
Despatch  it  presently;  the  hour  draAvs  on 
Prefixed  by  Angelo.     See  this  be  done. 
And  sent  according  to  command ;  whiles  I 
Persuade  this  rude  wretch  willingly  to  die, 

Prov.    This  shall  be  done,  good  father,  presently. 
But  Barnardine  must  die  this  afternoon  : 
And  how  shall  we  continue  Claudio, 
To  save  me  from  the  danger  that  might  come. 
If  he  were  known  alive  ? 

Duke.    Let  this  be  done.  —  Put  them  in  secret  holds, 
Both  Barnardine  and  Claudio ;  ere  twice 
The  sun  hath  made  his  journal  greeting  to 
The  under  generation,  you  shall  find 
Your  safety  manifested. 

Prov.    1  am  your  free  dependant. 

Duke.  Quick,  despatch, 

And  send  the  head  to  Angelo.  \^Exit  Provost 

Now  will  I  write  letters  to  Angelo, — 
The  provost  he  shall  bear  them, — whose  contents 


308  MEASURE    FOR    MEASURE.     [Act  IV 

Shall  Nfitness  to  him  I  am  near  at  home ; 

And  that,  by  great  injunctions,  I  am  bound 

To  enter  publicly:  him  I'll  desire 

To  meet  me  at  the  consecrated  fount, 

A  league  below  the  city ;  and  from  thence, 

By  cold  gradation  and  weal-balanced  form, 

We  shall  proceed  with  Angelo. 

Re-enter  Provost. 

Prov.    Here  is  the  head :  I'll  carry  it  myself. 

Duke.    Convenient  is  it :  make  a  swift  return ; 
For  I  would  commune  with  you  of  such  things, 
That  want  no  ear  but  yours. 

Prov.  I'll  make  all  speed.     [Exit 

Isah.  [  Within.']   Peace,  ho,  be  here ! 

Duke.    The  tongue  of  Isabel ;  —  she's  come  to  know 
If  yet  her  brother's  pardon  be  come  hither ; 
But  I  will  keep  her  ignorant  of  her  good. 
To  make  her  heavenly  comforts  of  despair, 
When  it  is  least  expected. 

Enter  Isabella. 

Isah.    Ho,  by  your  leave. 

Duke.  Good  morning  to  you,  fair  and  gracious  daughter. 

Isah.    The  better  given  me  by  so  holy  a  man. 
Hath  yet  the  deputy  sent  my  brother's  pardon  ? 

Diike.    He  hath  released  him,  Isabel,  from  the  world; 
His  head  is  oif,  and  sent  to  Angelo. 

Isah.    Nay,  but  it  is  not  so.. 

Duke.  It  is  no  other : 

Show  your  wisdom,  daughter,  in  your  close  patience. 

Isah.    0,  I  will  to  him,  and  pluck  out  his  eyes. 

Duke.    You  shall  not  be  admitted  to  his  sight. 

Isah.    Unhappy  Claudio  !     Wretched  Isabel ! 
Injurious  world  !     Most  damned  Angelo  ! 

Duke.    This  nor  hurts  him,  nor  profits  you  a  jot: 
Forbear  it  therefore ;  give  your  cause  to  Heaven. 
Mark  what  I  say,  which  you  shall  find 
By  every  syllable  a  faithful  verity: 
The  duke  comes  home  to-morrow ;  —  nay,  dry  your  eyes : 
One  of  our  convent,  and  his  confessor. 
Gives  me  this  instance :   already  he  hath  carried 
Notice  to  Escalus  and  Angelo, 
Who  do  prepare  to  meet  him  at  the  gates. 
There  to  give  up  their  power.    If  you  can,  pace  your  wisdoni 
In  that  good  path  that  I  would  wish  it  go ; 


Act  IV.]    MEASURE   FOR   MEASURE.  309 

And  you  shall  have  your  bosom  on  this  wretch, 
Grace  of  the  duke,  revenges  to  your  heart, 
And  general  honor. 

Isah.  I  am  directed  by  you. 

Duke.    This  letter  then  to  friar  Peter  give : 
'Tis  that  he  sent  me  of  the  duke's  return: 
Say,  by  this  token,  I  desire  his  company 
At  Mariana's  house  to-night.     Her  cause  and  yours 
I'll  perfect  him  withal ;   and  he  shall  bring  you 
Before  the  duke ;  and  to  the  head  of  Angelo 
Accuse  him  home,  and  home.     For  my  poor  self, 
I  am  combined  by  a  sacred  vow. 
And  shall  be  absent.     Wend  you  with  this  letter; 
Command  these  fretting  waters  from  your  eyes 
With  a  light  heart ;  trust  not  my  holy  order, 
If  I  pervei-t  your  course.  —  Who's  here? 

Enter  Lucio. 

Lucio.  Good  even! 

Friar,  where  is  the  provost  ? 

Duke.  Not  within,  sir. 

Lucio.  0,  pretty  Isabella,  I  am  pale  at  mine  heart  to  see 
thine  eyes  so  red :  thou  must  be  patient :  I  am  fain  to  dine 
and  sup  with  water  and  bran  ;  I  dare  not  for  my  head  fill 
my  belly  ;  one  fruitful  meal  would  set  me  to't ;  but  they  say 
the  duke  will  be  here  to-morrow.  By  my  troth,  Isabel,  I 
loved  thy  brother :  if  the  old  fantastical  duke  of  dark  cor- 
ners had  been  at  home,  he  had  lived.  {^Exit  Isabella. 

Duke.  Sir,  the  duke  is  marvellous  little  beholden  to  your 
reports ;  but  the  best  is,  he  lives  not  in  them. 

Lucio.  Friar,  thou  knowest  not  the  duke  so  well  as  I  do : 
he's  a  better  woodman  than  thou  takest  him  for. 

Duke.  Well,  you'll  answer  this  one  day.     Fare  ye  well. 

Lucio.  Nay,  tarry ;  I'll  go  along  with  thee ;  I  can  tell 
thee  pretty  tales  of  the  duke. 

Duke.  You  have  told  me  too  many  of  him  already,  sir, 
if  they  be  true  ;  if  not  true,  none  were  enough. 

Lucio.  I  was  once  before  him  for  getting  a  wench  with  child. 

Duke.    Did  you  such  a  thing  ? 

Lucio.  Yes,  marry,  did  I ;  but  was  fain  to  forswear  it ; 
they  would  else  have  married  me  to  the  rotten  medlar. 

Duke.  Sir,  your  company  is  fairer  than  honest :  rest  you 
•well. 

Lucio.  By  my  troth,  I'll  go  with  thee  to  the  lane's  end :  if 
bawdy  talk  offend  you,  we'll  have  very  little  of  it;  nay, 
friar,   I  am  a  kind  of  burr;  I  shall  stick.  \_Exeunt. 


310  MEASURE   FOR    MEASURE.     [Act  IV 

SCENE  IV.     A  Room  in  Angelo's  Sou%e. 
Enter  Angelo  and  Escalus. 

Escal.    Every  letter  lie  hath  writ  hath  disvouched  other. 

Any.  In  most  uneven  and  distracted  manner.  His  actiona 
show  much  like  to  madness :  pray  Heaven,  his  wisdom  be 
not  tainted !  and  why  meet  him  at  the  gates,  and  redeliver 
our  authorities  there  ? 

Escal.    I  guess  not. 

Ang.  And  why  should  we  proclaim  it  an  hour  before  his 
entering,  that,  if  any  crave  redress  of  injustice,  they  should 
exhibit  their  petitions  in  the  street  ? 

Escal.  He  shows  his  reason  for  that :  to  have  a  despatch 
(if  complaints ;  and  to  deliver  us  from  devices  hereafter, 
which  shall  then  have  no  power  to  stand  against  us. 

Ang.    "Well,  I  beseech  you,  let  it  be  proclaimed: 
Betimes  i'  the  morn,  I'll  call  you  at  your  house : 
Give  notice  to  such  men  of  sort  and  suit. 
As  are  to  meet  him. 

Escal.  I  shall,  sir :  fare  you  well.    [Exit. 

Ang.    Good  night. — 
This  deed  unshapes  me  quite,  makes  me  unpregnant, 
And  dull  to  all  proceeding.     A  deflowered  maid ! 
And  by  an  eminent  body,  that  enforced 
The  law  against  it! — But  that  her  tender  shame 
Will  not  proclaim  against  her  maiden  loss. 
How  might  she  tongue  me  !     Yet  reason  dares  her  ?  —  no : 
For  my  authority  bears  a  credent  bulk, 
That  no  particular  scandal  once  can  touch, 
But  it  confounds  the  breather.     He  should  have  lived ! 
Save  that  his  riotous  youth,  with  dangerous  sense, 
Might,  in  the  times  to  come,  have  ta'en  revenge, 
By  so  receiving  a  dishonored  life. 

With  ransom  of  such  shame.     'Would  yet  he  had  lived! 
Alack,  when  once  our  grace  we  have  forgot, 
Nothing  goes  right ;  we  would  and  we  would  not.        \_Exit. 

SCENE  y.     Fields  tvithout  the  Town. 
Enter  Duke  in  his  own  habit,  and  Friar  Peter. 

Duke.    These  letters  at  fit  time  deliver  me. 

\_G-iving  letters. 
The  provost  knows  our  purpose,  and  our  plot. 
The  matter  being  afoot,  keep  your  instruction, 
And  hold  you  ever  to  our  special  drift ; 


Act  IV.]    MEASURE   FOR    MEASURE  311 

Though  sometimes  you  do  blench  from  this  to  that, 
As  cause  doth  minister.     Go,  call  at  Flavins'  hcuse, 
And  tell  him  where  I  stay :  give  the  like  notice 
To  Valentinus,  Rowland,  and  to  Crassus, 
And  bid  them  bring  the  trumpets  to  the  gate ; 
But  send  me  Flavins  first. 

F.  Peter.  It  shall  be  speeded  well. 

[Exit  Friar: 
Enter  Varrius. 

Duke.    I  thank  thee,  Varrius  ;  thou  hast  made  good  haste 
Come,  we  will  walk :  there's  other  of  our  friends 
Will  greet  us  here  anon,  my  gentle  Varrius.       [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.     Street  near  the  Qity  Gate. 
Enter  Isabella  and  Mariana. 

Isab.    To  speak  so  indirectly,  I  am  loath ; 
I  would  say  the  truth ;  but  to  accuse  him  so, 
That  is  your  part :  yet  I'm  advised  to  do  it ; 
He  says,  to  'vailful  purpose. 

Mari,  Be  ruled  by  him. 

Isah.    Besides,  he  tells  me,  that,  if  peradventure 
He  speak  against  me  on  the  adverse  side, 
I  should  not  think  it  strange ;  for  'tis  a  physic 
That's  bitter  to  sweet  end. 

Mari.    I  would,  friar  Peter  — 

Isab.  0,  peace;  the  friar  is  come. 

Enter  Friar  Peter. 

F.  Peter.    Come,  I  have  found  you  out  a  stand  most  fit, 
Where  you  may  have  such  vantage  on  the  duke. 
He  shall  not  pass  you :  twice  have  the  trumpets  sounded ; 
The  generous  and  the  gravest  citizens 
'Have  hent  the  gates,  and  very  near  upon 
The  duke  is  entering ;  therefore,  hence,  away.     [Exeunt 


S12  MEASURE    FOR   MEASURE.     lAct  V 

ACT  y. 

SCENE  I.     A  puhlie  Place  near  the  City  Grate. 

Mariana  [veiled),  Isabella,  and  Peter,  at  a  distance 
Enter,  at  opjyosite  doors,  Duke,  Yarrius,  Lords;  Angelo, 
Escalus,  Lucio,  Provost,  Officers,  and  Citizens. 

DuJce.    My  very  ■worthy  cousin,  fairly  met :  — 
Our  old  and  faithful  friend,  we  are  glad  to  see  you. 

Ang.  and  Escal.    Happy  return  be  to  your  royal  grace  I 

Duke.    Many  and  hearty  thankings  to  you  both. 
We  have  made  inquiry  of  you;  and  we  hear 
Such  goodness  of  your  justice,  that  our  soul 
Cannot  but  yield  you  forth  to  public  thanks, 
Forerunning  more  requital. 

Ang.  You  make  my  bonds  still  greater. 

Duke.    0,  your  desert  speaks  loud ;  and  I  should  wrong  it, 
To  lock  it  in  the  wards  of  covert  bosom. 
When  it  deserves  with  characters  of  brass 
A  forted  residence,   'gainst  the  tooth  of  time, 
A  nd  razure  of  oblivion :  give  me  your  hand, 
And  let  the  subject  see,  to  make  them  know 
That  outward  courtesies  would  fain  proclaim 
Favours  that  keep  within.  —  Come,  Escalus  ; 
You  must  walk  by  us  on  oui'  other  hand ;  — 
And  good  supporters  are  you. 

Peter  and  Isabella  come  forward. 

F.  Peter.   Now  is  your  time ;  speak  loud,  and  kneel  before 
him. 

Isah.    Justice,   0  royal  duke !     Yail  your  regard, 
Upon  a  wronged,  I'd  fain  have  said,  a  maid ! 
0  worthy  prince,  dishonor  not  your  eye 
By  throwing  it  on  any  other  object. 
Till  you  have  heard  me  in  my  true  complaint. 
And  given  me,  justice,  justice,  justice,  justice ! 

Duke.    Relate  your  wrongs  :  In  what  ?     By  whom  ?    Be 
brief: 
Here  is  lord  Angelo  shall  give  you  justice ! 
Reveal  yourself  to  him. 

Isah.  0,  worthy  duke, 

fou  bid  me  seek  redemption  of  the  devil ; 
Hear  me  yourself;  for  that  which  I  must  speak 
Must  either  punish  me,  not  being  believed, 
Or  wring  redress  from  you ;  hear  me,  0,  hear  me,  here 


Act  v.]       MEASURE    FOR    MEASURE.  313 

Ang.    My  lord,  her  whs,  I  fear  me,  are  not  firm : 
She  hath  been  a  suitor  to  me  for  her  brother, 
Cut  off  by  course  of  justice. 

Isab.  By  course  of  justice  ! 

Ang.    And  she  will  speak  most  bitterly  and  strange. 
Isab.    Most  strange,  but  yet  iiost  truly,  will  I  speak 
That  Angelo's  forsworn,  is  it  not  strange  ? 
That  Angelo's  a  murderer,,  is't  not  strange  ? 
That  Angelo  is  an  adulterous  thief, 
An  hypocrite,  a  virgin-violator. 
Is  it  not  strange,  and  strange  ? 

Duke.  Nay,  ten  times  stranga 

Isab.    It  is  not  truer  he  is  Angelo, 
Than  this  is  all  as  true  as  it  is  strange : 
Nay,  it  is  ten  times  true ;  for  truth  is  truth 
To  the  end  of  reckoning. 

Duke.  Away  with  her :  —  poor  soul 

She  speaks  this  in  the  infirmity  of  sense. 

Isab.    0  prince,  I  conjure  thee,  as  thou  believest 
There  is  another  comfort  than  this  world, 
That  thou  neglect  me  not,  with  that  opinion 
That  I  am  touched  with  madness :  make  not  impossible 
That  which  but  seems  unlike :   'tis  not  impossible 
But  one,  the  wicked'st  caitiff  on  the  ground, 
May  seem  as  shy,  as  grave,  as  just,  as  absolute, 
As  Angelo ;  even  so  may  Angelo, 
In  all  his  dressings,  characts,  titles,  forms. 
Be  an  arch  villain :  believe  it,  royal  prince, 
If  he  be  less,  he's  nothing ;  but  he's  more, 
Had  I  more  name  for  badness. 

Duke.  By  mine  honesty, 

If  she  be  mad,  (as  I  believe  no  other,) 
Her  madness  hath  the  oddest  frame  of  sense, 
Such  a  dependency  of  thing  on  thing, 
As  e'er  I  heard  in  madness. 

Isab.  0,  gracious  duke. 

Harp  not  on  that ;  nor  do  not  banish  reason 
For  inequality :  but  let  your  reason  serve 
To  make  the  truth  appear,  where  it  seems  hid. 
And  hide  the  faults,  seems  true. 

Duke.  Many  that  are  not  mad, 

Have,  sure,  more  lack  of  reason. — What  would  you  say? 

Isab.    I  am  the  sister  of  one  Claudio, 
Condemned  upon  the  act  of  fornication 
To  lose  his  head ;  condemned  by  Angelo : 
I,  in  probation  of  a  sisterhood, 

2b 


314  MEASURE    FOR    MEASURE.       [Act  V 

Was  sent  to  by  my  brother :  one  Lucio 
As  then  the  messenger ;  — 

Lucio.  That's  I,  an't  like  your  grace : 

I  came  to  her  from  Claudio,  and  desired  her 
To  try  her  gracious  fortune  with  lord  Angelo, 
For  her  poor  brother's  pardon. 

Isah.  That's  he,  indeed. 

Duke.    You  were  not  bid  to  speak. 

Lucio.  No,  my  good  lord  j 

Nor  wished  to  hold  my  peace. 

Duke.  I  wish  you  now,  then; 

Pray  you,  take  note  of  it :  and  when  you  have 
A  business  for  yourself,  pray  Heaven  you  then 
Be  perfect. 

Lucio.    I  warrant  your  honor. 

Duke.    The  warrant's  for  yourself;  take  heed  to  it. 

Lsah.  "This  gentleman  told  somewhat  of  my  tale. 

Lucio.    Right. 

Duke.    It  may  be  right ;  but  you  are  in  the  wrong 
To  speak  before  your  time. — Proceed. 

Isah.  I  went 

To  this  pernicious  caitiff  deputy. 

Duke.    That's  somewhat  madly  spoken. 

Isah.  Pardon  it. 

The  phrase  is  to  the  matter. 

Duke.    Mended  again  :  the  matter ;  —  proceed. 

Isah.    In  brief,  —  to  set  the  needless  process  by, 
How  I  persuaded,  how  I  prayed,  and  kneeled, 
How  he  refelled  me,  and  how  I  replied, 
(For  this  was  of  much  length,)  the  vile  conclusion 
I  now  begin  with  grief  and  shame  to  utter ; 
He  would  not,  but  by  gift  of  my  chaste  body 
To  his  concupiscible,  intemperate  lust. 
Release  my  brother ;  and,  after  much  debatement, 
My  sisterly  remorse  confutes  mine  honor, 
And  I  did  yield  to  him.     But  the  next  morn  betimes, 
His  purpose  surfeiting,  he  sends  a  warrant 
For  my  poor  brother's  head. 

Duke.  This  is  most  likely ! 

Isah.    0,  that  it  were  as  like  as  it  is  true ! 

Duke.    By  Heaven,  fond  wretch,  thou  know'st  not  wtat 
thou  speak'st ; 
Or  else  thou  art  suborned  against  his  honor, 
In  hateful  practice.     First,  his  integrity 
Stands  without  blemish:  —  next,  it  imports  ud  reason 
That  with  such  vehemency  he  should  pursue 


Act  7.]      MEASURE    FOR    MEASURE.  315 

Faults  proper  to  himself:  if  he  had  so  offended, 

He  would  have  weighed  thy  brother  by  himself, 

And  not  have  cut  him  off:  some  one  hath  set  you  on. 

Confess  the  truth,  and  say  by  whose  advice 

Thou  cam'st  here  to  complain. 

Isab.  And  is  this  all? 

Then,  oh,  you  blessed  ministers  above, 
Keep  me  in  patience ;  and,  with  ripened  time, 
Unfold  the  evil  which  is  here  wrapped  up 
In  countenance! —  Heaven  shield  your  grace  from  woe, 
As  I,  thus  wronged,  hence  unbelieved  go ! 

Duke.    I  know,  you'd  fain  be  gone.  —  An  officer ! 
To  prison  with  her :  —  shall  we  thus  permit 
A  blasting  and  a  scandalous  breath  to  fall 
On  him  so  near  us  ?     This  needs  must  be  a  practice. 
— Who  knew  of  your  intent,  and  coming  hither  ? 

Isah.    One  that  I  would  were  here,  friar  Lodowick. 

Duke.   A  ghostly  father,  belike :  who  knows  that  Lodo- 
wick ? 

Lucio.  My  lord,  I  know  him  ;  'tis  a  meddling  friar ; 
I  do  not  like  the  man :  had  he  been  lay,  my  lord, 
For  certain  words  he  spake  against  your  grace 
In  your  retirement,  I  had  swinged  him  soundly. 

Duke.    Words  against  me  ?  this  a  good  friar  belike ! 
And  to  set  on  this  wretched  woman  here 
Against  our  substitute  !  —  Let  this  friar  be  found. 

Lucio.    But  yesternight,  my  lord,  she  and  that  friar, 
I  saw  them  at  the  prison ;  a  saucy  friar, 
A  very  scurvy  fellow. 

F.  Peter.  Blessed  be  your  royal  grace ! 

I  have  stood  by,  my  lord,  and  I  have  heard 
Your  royal  ear  abused:  first,  hath  this  woman 
Most  wrongfully  accused  your  substitute ; 
W^ho  is  as  free  from  touch  or  soil  with  her. 
As  she  from  one  ungot. 

Duke.  We  did  believe  no  less. 

Know  you  that  friar  Lodowick  that  she  speaks  of! 

F.  Peter.    I  know  him  for  a  man  divine  and  holy; 
Not  scurvy,  nor  a  temporary  meddler, 
As  he's  reported  by  this  gentleman ; 
And,  on  my  trust,  a  man  that  never  yet 
Did,  as  he  vouches,  misreport  your  grace. 

Lucio.    My  lord,  most  villanously ;  believe  it. 

F.  Peter.    Well,  he  in  time  may  come  to  clear  himself; 
Jiut  at  this  instant  he  is  sick,  my  lord. 
Of  a  strange  fever :  upon  his  mere  request 


310  MEASURE    FOR    MEASURE.      [Act  V. 

(Being  come  to  knowledge  that  there  was  complaint 

Intended  'gainst  lord  Angelo)  came  I  hither, 

To  speak  as  from  his  mouth,  what  he  doth  know 

Is  true,  and  false;  and  what  he  with  his  oath, 

And  all  probation,  will  make  up  full  clear, 

Whensoe'er  he's  convented.     First,  for  this  woman, 

(To  justify  this  worthy  nobleman, 

oo  vulgarly  and  personally  accused,) 

Her  shall  you  hear  disproved  to  her  eyes, 

Till  she  herself  confess  it. 

Duke.  Good  friar,  let's  hear  it. 

[Isabella  is  carried  off,  guarded;  avd 
Mariana  ccmies  forward. 
Do  you  not  smile  at  this  lord  Angelo  ?  — 

0  Heaven !     The  vanity  of  wretched  fools !  — 
Give  us  some  seats.  —  Come,  cousin  Angelo ; 
In  this  I'll  be  impartial ;  be  you  judge 

Of  your  own  cause.  —  Is  this  the  witness,  friar? 
First,  let  her  show  her  face ;  and,  after,  speak. 

Mari.    Pardon,  my  lord;  I  will  not  show  my  face 
Until  my  husband  bid  me. 

Duke.    What,  are  you  married? 

Mari.    No,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Are  you  a  maid? 

Mari.  No,  my  lord. 

Duke.    A  widow  then  ? 

Mari.  Neither,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Why,  you 

Are  nothing  then:  —  neither  maid,  widow,  nor  wife? 

Lucio.    My  lord,  she  may  be  a  punk ;  for  many  of  them 
are  neither  maid,  widow,  nor  wife. 

Duke.    Silence  that  fellow ;  I  would  he  had  some  cause 
To  prattle  for  himself. 

Lucio.    Well,  my  lord. 

Mari.    My  lord,  I  do  confess  I  ne'er  was  married; 
And  I  confess,  besides,  I  am  no  maid : 

1  have  known  my  husband;    yet  my  husband  knows  not 
That  ever  he  knew  me. 

Lucio.    He  was  drunk  then,  my  lord  ;  it  can  be  no  better. 

Dukt.    For  the  benefit  of  silence,  'would  thou  wcrt  so  too. 

Lucio.    Well,  my  lord : 

Duke.    This  is  no  witness  for  lord  Angelo. 

Mari.    Now  I  come  to't,  my  lord : 
She,  that  accuses  him  of  fornication. 
In  self-same  manner  doth  accuse  my  husband; 
And  charges  him,  my  lord,  with  such  a  time, 


Act  v.]       Mi:  ASU  RE   FOR  MEASURE.  317 

When  I'll  iepose  I  had  liim  in  mine  arms, 
With  all  the  eiFect  of  love. 

Ang.  Charges  she  more  than  me^ 

3Iari.    Not  that  I  know. 

Duke.  No  ?  you  say,  your  husband 

Mart.    Why,  just,  my  lord,  and  that  is  Angelo, 
Who  thinks,  he  knows,  that  he  ne'er  knew  my  body, 
But  knows,  he  thinks,  that  he  knew  Isabel's. 

Ang.    This  is  a  strange  abuse: — let's  see  thy  face. 

Mari.    My  husband  bids  me ;  now  I  will  unmask. 

[  Unveiling 
This  is  that  face,  thou  cruel  Angelo, 
Which,  once  thou  swor'st,  was  worth  the  looking  on : 
This  is  the  hand,  which,  with  a  vowed  contract, 
Was  fast  belocked  in  thine:  this  is  the  body 
That  took  away  the  match  from  Isabel, 
And  did  supply  thee  at  thy  garden-house, 
In  her  imagined  person. 

Duke.  Know  you  this  woman? 

Lucio.    Carnally,  she  says. 

Duke.  Sirrah,  no  more. 

Lucio.    Enough,  my  lord. 

Ang.    My  lord,  I  must  confess,  I  know  this  woman : 
And,  nve  years  since,  there  was  some  speech  of  marriage 
Betwixt  myself  and  her  ;  which  was  broke  off, 
Partly,  for  that  her  promised  proportions 
Came  short  of  composition ;  but,  in  chief, 
For  that  her  reputation  was  disvalued 
In  levity ;  since  which  time  of  live  years, 
I  never  spake  with  her,  saw  her,  nor  heard  from  her, 
Upon  my  faith  and  honor. 

Mari.  Noble  prince. 

As  there  comes  light  from  heaven,  and  words  from  breath, 
As  there  is  sense  in  truth,  and  truth  in  vii'tue, 
I  am  affianced  this  man's  wife,  as  strongly 
As  words  could  make  up  vows ;   and,  my  goo  1  lord, 
But  Tuesday  night  last  gone,  in  his  garden-house. 
He  knew  me  as  a  wife.     As  this  is  true, 
Let  me  in  safety  raise  me  from  my  knees 
Or  else  forever  be  confixed  here, 
A  marble  monument ! 

Ang.  I  did  but  smile  till  now; 

Now,  good  my  lord,  give  me  the  scope  of  justice ; 
My  patience  here  is  touched:  I  do  perceive, 
These  poor  informal  women  are  no  more 
But  instruments  of  some  more  mightier  member, 

2b* 


818  MEASURE    FOE    MEASURE.      [Act  V 

That  sets  them  on :   let  me  have  "way,  my  lord, 
To  find  this  practice  out. 

Duke.  Ay,  with  my  heart ; 

And  punish  them  unto  your  height  of  pleasure. — 
Thou  foolish  friar,  and  thou  pernicious  woman. 
Compact  with  her  that's  gone  !     Think'st  thou  thy  oaths, 
Though  they  would  swear  down  each  particular  saint, 
Were  testimonies  against  his  worth  and  credit. 
That's  sealed  in  approbation  ? — You,  lord  Escalus, 
Sit  with  my  cousin :  lend  him  your  kind  pains 
To  find  out  this  abuse,  whence  'tis  derived. — 
There  is  another  friar  that  set  them  on; 
Let  him  be  sent  for. 

F.  Peter.  Would  he  were  here,  my  lord ;  for  he,  indeed, 
Hath  set  the  women  on  to  this   complaint : 
Your  provost  knows  the  place  where  he  abides, 
And  he  may  fetch  him. 

Duke.    Go,  do  it  instantly. —  \^Uxit  Provost. 

And  you,  my  noble  and  well-warranted  cousin, 
Whom  it  concerns  to  hear  this  matter  forth, 
Do  with  your  injuries  as  seems  you  best. 
In  any  chastisement :  I  for  a  while 
Will  leave  you ;  but  stir  not  you,  till  you  have  well 
Determined  upon  these  slanderers. 

Escal.    My  lord,  we'll  do  it  thoroughly. —  \Exit  Duke. 
Seignior  Lucio,  did  you  not  say,  you  knew  that  friar  Lodo- 
wick  to  be  a  dishonest  person  ? 

Lucio.  Cucullus  nonfacit  monaclnim  :  honest  in  nothing, 
but  in  his  clothes ;  and  one  that  has  spoke  most  villanous 
speeches  of  the  duke. 

Escal.    We  shall  entreat  you  to  abide  here  till  he  come, 
and  enforce  them  against  him :  we  shall  find  this  friar  a- 
notable  fellow. 

Lucio.    As   any  in  Vienna,  on  my  word. 

Escal.  Call  that  same  Isabel  here  once  again;  [Tb  an 
Attendant.~\  I  would  speak  with  her ;  pray  you,  my  lord, 
give  me  leave  to  question ;  you  shall  see  how  I'll  handle  her 

Lucio.    Not  better  than  he,  by  her  own  report. 

Escal.    Say  you? 

Lucio.  Marry,  sir,  I  think,  if  you  handled  her  privately, 
she  would  sooner  confess ;  perchance,  publicly,  she'll  be 
ashamed. 

Re-entei   Officers,  with  Isabella,  the  Duke,  in  the  friar** 
habit,  and  Provost. 

Escal.    I  will  go  darkly  to  work  with  her. 


Act  v.]       MEASURE    FOR   MEASLRE.  319 

Lucio.    That's  the  way,  for  women  are  liglit  at  midnight. 

Escal.    Come   on,  mistress;  \_To   Isabella.]     Here's  a 
gentlewoman  denies  all  that  you  have  said, 

Lucio.    ]My  lord,  here  comes  the  rascal  I  spoke  of;  here 
with  the  provost. 

Eseal.    In  very  good  time  :  —  speak  not  you  to  him,  till 
we  call  upon  you. 

Lucio.    Mum. 

Escal.    Come,  sir :  did  you  set  these  women  on  to  slander 
lord  Angelo  ?     They  have  confessed  you  did, 

Duke.    'Tis  false. 

Escal.    How  !  know  you  where  you  are  ? 

Duke.    Respect  to  your  great  place!  and  let  the  devil 
Be  sometimes  honored  for  his  burning  throne  : — 
Where  is  the  duke  ?     'Tis  he  should  hear  me  speak. 

Escal.    The  duke's  in  us  ;  and  he  will  hear  you  speak  ; 
Look,  you  speak  justly. 

Duke.    Boldly,  at  least :  —  but,   0,  poor  souls, 
Come  you  to  seek  the  lamb  here  of  the  fox? 
Good  night  to  your  redre^.     Is  the  duke  gone  ? 
Then  is  your  cause  gone  too.     The  duke's  unjust, 
Thus  to  retort  your  manifest  appeal, 
And  put  your  trial  in  the  villain's  mouth, 
Which  here  you  come  to  accuse. 

Lucio.    This  is  the  rascal :  this  is  he  I  spoke  of. 

Escal.    Why,  thou  unreverend  and  unhallowed  friar  ! 
Is't  not  enough,  thou  hast  suborned  these  women 
To  accuse  this  worthy  man ;  but,  in  foul  mouth, 
And  in  the  witness  of  his  proper  ear, 
To  call  him  villain  ? 

And  then  to  glance  from  him  to  the  duke  himself; 
To  tax  him  with  injustice  ?  —  Take  him  hence ; 
To  the  rack  with  him  :  — we'll  touze  you  joint  by  joint, 
But  we  will  know  this  purpose  :  —  what !  unjust ! 

Duke.    Be  not  so  hot ;  the  duke 
Dare  no  more  stretch  this  finger  of  mine,  than  he 
Dare  rack  his  own ;  his  subject  am  I  not. 
Nor  here  provincial :  My  business  in  this  state 
Made  me  a  looker-on  here  in  Vienna, 
Where  I  have  seen  corruption  boil  and  bubble, 
Till  it  o'errun  the  stew ;  laws,  for  all  faults ; 
But  faults  so  countenanced,  that  the  strong  statutes 
Stand  like  the  forfeits  in  a  barber's  shop. 
As  much  in  mock  as  mark. 

Escal.    Slander  to  the  state  !     Away  with  him  to  prison. 


320      MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.   f Act  V 

Ang.    What  can  you  vouch  against  him,  selgnoir  Lucio  ? 
Is  this  the  man  that  you  did  tell  us  of? 

Lucio.  'Tis  he,  my  lord.  Come  hither,  goodman  bald- 
pate  :  do  you  know  me  ? 

DuJce.  I  remember  you,  sir,  by  the  sound  of  your  voice: 
I  met  you  at  the  prison  in  the  absence  of  the  duke. 

Lucio.  0,  did  you  so  ?  And  do  you  remember  what  you 
said  of  the  duke "'' 

Duke.    Most  notedly,  sir. 

Lucio.  Do  you  so,  sir  ?  And  was  the  duke  a  flesh-monger, 
a  fool,  and  a  coward,  as  you  then  reported  him  to  be  ? 

Luke.  You  must,  sir,  change  persons  with  me,  ere  you 
make  that  my  report :  you,  indeed,  spoke  so  of  him ;  and 
much  more,  much  worse. 

Lucio.  0  thou  damnable  fellow !  Did  not  I  pluck  thee 
by  the  nose,  for  thy  speeches  ? 

Luke.    I  protest,  I  love  the  duke,  as  I  love  myself. 

A7ig.  Hark !  how  the  villain  would  close  now,  after  his 
treasonable  abuses. 

Escal.  Such  a  fellow  is  not  to  be  talked  withal :  —  away 
with  him  to  prison  :  —  Where  is  the  provost  ?  —  Away  with 
him  to  prison  ;  lay  bolts  enough  upon  him : — Let  him  speak 
no  more  :  — Away  with  those  giglots  too,  and  with  the  other 
confederate  companion. 

\^The  Provost  lays  hands  on  the  Luke. 

Luke.    Stay,  sir ;  stay  a  while. 

Ang.   What !  resists  he  ?     Help  him,  Lucio. 

Lucio.    Come,  sir ;  come,  sir ;  come,  sir ;  fob,  sir ;  why, 

you  bald-pated,  lying  rascal !     You  must  be  hooded,  must 

you  ?     Show  your  knave's  visage,  with  a  pox  to  you !  show 

your  sheep-biting  face,  and  be  hanged  an  hour  !    Wilt  not  off? 

[Pulls  off  the  Friar  s  hood,  and  discovers  the  Duke. 

Luke.  Thou  art  the  first  knave  that  e'er  made  a  duke. 

First,  provost,  let  me  bail  these  gentle  three : 

Sneak  not  away,  sir;  [To  Lucio.]  for  the  friar  and  you 
Must  have  a  word  anon :  —  lay  hold  on  him. 

Lucio.    This  may  prove  worse  than  hanging. 

Luke.  What  you  have  spoke,  I  pardon ;  sit  you  down. 

[To   ESCALUS. 
We'll  borrow  place  of  him :  —  sir,  by  your  leave : 

[To  Angelo. 
Hast  thou  or  word,  or  wit,  or  impudence. 
That  yet  can  do  thee  office  ?     If  thou  hast, 
Kely  upon  it  till  my  tale  be  heard. 
And  hold  no  longer  out. 

Ang.  0  my  dread  lord, 

I  should  be  guiltier  than  my  guiltiness, 


Act  v.]      MEASURE   FOR    MEASURE.  Sil 

To  think  I  can  be  undiscernible, 

When  I  perceive,  your  grace,  like  power  divine, 

Hath  looked  upon  my  passes :  Then,  good  prince, 

No  longer  session  hold  upon  my  shame. 

But  let  my  trial  be  mine  own  confession ; 

Immediate  sentence  then,  and  sequent  death. 

Is  all  the  grace  I  beg. 

Duke.  Come  hither,  Mariana ;  — 

Say,  wast  thou  e'er  contracted  to  this  woman? 

Ang.    I  was,  my  lord. 

Duke.    Go  take  her  hence,  and  marry  her  instantly. — 
Do  you  the  office,  friar ;  which  consummate. 
Return  him  here  again  :  —  go  with  him,  provost. 

{Exeunt  Angelo,  Mariana,  Peter,  and  Provost 

Escal.    My  lord,  I  am  more  amazed  at  his  dishonor, 
Than  at  the  strangeness  of  it. 

Duke.  Come  hither,  Isabel : 

Your  friar  is  now  your  prince :  as  I  was  then 
Advertising,  and  holy  to  your  business, 
Not  changing  heart  with  habit,  I  am  still 
Attorneyed  at  your  service. 

Isab.  0,  give  me  pardon, 

That  I,  your  vassal,  have  employed  and  pained 
Your  unknown  sovereignty. 

Duke.  You  are  pardoned,  Isabel: 

And  now,  dear  maid,  be  you  as  free  to  us. 
Your  brother's  death,  I  know,  sits  at  your  heart; 
And  you  may  mai-vel  why  I  obscured  myself. 
Laboring  to  save  his  life  ;  and  would  not  rather 
Make  rash  remonstrance  of  my  hidden  power, 
Than  let  him  so  be  lost:  0,  most  kind  maid. 
It  was  the  swift  celerity  of  his  death. 
Which  I  did  think  with  slower  foot  came  on. 
That  brained  my  purpose :  but  peace  be  with  him ! 
That  life  is  better  life,  past  fearing  death. 
Than  that  which  lives  to  fear:  make  it  your  comfort, 
80  happy  is  your  brother. 

Re-enter  Angelo,  Mariana,  Peter,  a7id  Provost. 

Isah.  I  do,  my  lord. 

Duke.    For  this  new-married  man,  approaching  here, 
Whose  salt  imagination  yet  hath  wronged 
Your  well-defended  honor,  you  must  pardon 
For  Mariana's  sake ;  but  as  he  adjudged  your  brother, 

Vol.  I.  —  21 


322  MEASURE    FOR    MEASURE.      [Act  V 

(Being  criminal,  in  double  violation 

Of  sacred  chastity,  and  of  promise-breacn 

Thereon  dependent  for  your  brother's  life,) 

The  very  mercy  of  the  law  cries  out 

Most  audible,  even  from  his  proper  tongue, 

A71  Angcio  for  Olaudio,  death  for  death. 

Haste  still  pays  haste,  and  leisure  answers  leisure ; 

Like  doth  quit  like,  and  Pleasure  still  for  Measure. 

Then,  Angelo,  thy  fault's  thus  manifested ; 

Which,  though  thou  would'st  deny,  denies  thee  vantage : 

We  do  condemn  thee  to  the  very  block 

Where  Claudio  stooped  to  death,  and  with  like  haste;  — 

Away  with  him. 

Marx.  0,  my  most  gracious  lord, 

I  hope  you  will  not  mock  me  with  a  husband ! 

Duke.    It  is  your  husband  mocked  you  with  a  husband : 
Consenting  to  the  safeguard  of  your  honor, 
I  thought  your  marriage  fit ;  else  imputation. 
For  that  he  knew  you,  might  reproach  your  life, 
And  choke  your  good  to  come ;  for  his  possessions, 
Although  by  confiscation  they  are  ours, 
We  do  instate  and  widoAv  you  withal, 
To  buy  you  a  better  husband. 

Mari.  0,  my  dear  lord, 

I  crave  no  other,  nor  no  better  man. 

Dulte.    Never  crave  him ;  we  are  definitive. 

Mari.    Gentle,  my  liege, —  \Kneeling. 

Duke.  You  do  but  lose  your  labor ; 

Away  with  him  to  death. — Now,  sir,  \_To  Lucio.]  to  you. 

Mari.    0,  my  good  lord  !  —  Sweet  Isabel,  take  my  part  * 
Lend  me  youi-  knees,  and,  all  my  life  to  come, 
I'll  lend  you  all  my  life  to  do  you  service. 

Duke.    Against  all  sense  you  do  importune  her 
Should  she  kneel  down,  in  mercy  of  this  fact, 
Her  brother's  ghost  his  paved  bed  would  break, 
And  take  her  hence  in  horror. 

Mari.  Isabel, 

Sweet  Isabel,  do  yet  but  kneel  by  me ; 
Hold  up  your  hands ;   say  nothing ;  I'll  speak  all. 
They  say,  best  men  are  moulded  out  of  faults ; 
And,  for  the  most,  become  much  more  the  better 
For  being  a  little  bad:  so  may  my  husband. 
0,  Isabel !  will  you  not  lend  a  knee  ? 

Duke.    He  dies  for  Claudio's  death. 


Act  v.]      MEASURE   FOR   MEASURE  323 

Imh.  Most  bounteous  sir, 

[KneeliJig. 
Look,  if  it  please  you,  on  this  man  condemned, 
As  if  my  brother  lived :  I  partly  think, 
A  due  sincerity  governed  his  deeds. 
Till  he  did  look  on  me :  since  it  is  so. 
Let  him  not  die :  My  brother  had  but  justice. 
In  that  he  did  the  thing  for  which  he  died : 
For  Angelo, 

His  act  did  not  o'ertake  his  bad  intent; 
And  must  be  buried  but  as  an  intent 
That  perished  by  the  way :  thoughts  are  no  subjects ; 
Intents  but  merely  thoughts. 

3Iari.  Merely,  my  lord. 

Duke.    Your  suit's  unprofitable ;  stand  up,  I  say. — 
1  have  bethought  me  of  another  fault : 
Provost,  how  came  it  Claudio  was  beheaded 
At  an  unusual  houi*  ? 

Prov.  It  was  commanded  so. 

Duke.    Had  you  a  special  warrant  for  the  deed? 

Prov.    No,  my  good  lord;  it  was  by  private  message. 

Duke.    For  which  I  do  discharge  you  of  youi-  oflSce : 
Give  up  your  keys. 

Prov.  Pardon  me,  noble  lord: 

I  thought  it  was  a  fault,  but  knew  it  not ; 
Yet  did  repent  me,-  after  more  advice : 
For  testimony  whereof,  one  in  the  prison 
That  should  by  private  order  else  have  died, 
I  have  reserved  alive. 

Duke.  What's  he? 

Prov.    His  name  is  Barnardine. 

Duke.    I  would  thou  had'st  done  so  by  Claudio. 
Go,  fetch  him  hither  ;  let  me  look  upon  him.     [Exit  Provost. 

Escal.    I  am  sorry,  one  so  learned  and  so  wise 
As  you,  lord  Angelo,  have  still  appeared. 
Should  slip  so  grossly,  both  in  the  heat  of  blood. 
And  lack  of  tempered  judgment  afterward. 

Ang.    I  am  sorry,  that  such  sorrow  I  procure ; 
And  so  deep  sticks  it  in  my  penitent  heart. 
That  I  crave  death  more  willingly  than  mercy; 
'Tis  my  deserving,  and  I  do  entreat  it. 

Re-enter  Provost,  Barnardine,  Claudio,  and  Juliet. 
Duke.    Which  is  that  Barnardine  ? 


324  MEASURE   FOR   MEASURE.      [Act  V 

Prov.  This,  my  lord. 

Duke.    There  was  a  friar  told  me  of  this  man :  — 
Sirrah,  thou  art  said  to  have  a  stubborn  soul, 
That  apprehends  no  further  than  this  world, 
And  squar'st  thy  life  according.     Thou'rt  condemned; 
But,  for  those  earthly  faults,  I  quit  them  all; 
And  pray  thee,  take  this  mercy  to  provide 
For  better  times  to  come: — friar,  advise  him; 
I  leave  him  to  your  hand.     What  muffled  fellow's  that? 

Prov.    This  is  another  prisoner,  that  I  saved, 
Tha.t  should  have  died  when  Claudio  lost  his  head ; 
As  like  almost  to  Claudio  as  himself.    [  Unmujfles  Claudio. 

Duke.    If  he  be  like  your  brother,  \_To  Isabella,]  for 
his  sake 
Is  he  pardoned ;  and,  for  your  lovefy  sake. 
Give  me  your  hand,  and  say  you  will  be  mine. 
He  is  my  brother  too ;  but  fitter  time  for  that. 
By  this,  lord  Angelo  perceives  he's  safe ; 
Methinks  I  see  a  quickening  in  his  eye :  — 
Well,  Angelo,  your  evil  quits  you  well : 
Look  that  you  love  your  wife ;  her  worth,  worth  yours. — 
I  find  an  apt  remission  in   myself: 
And  yet  here's  one  in  ploce  I  cannot  pardon ;  — 
You,  sirrah,  [^To  Lucio]  that  knew  me  for  a  fool,  a  coward, 
One  all  of  luxury,  an  ass,  a  madman ; 
Wherein  have  I  so  deserved  of  you, 
That  you  extol  me  thus  ? 

Lucio.  'Faith,  my  lord,  I  spoke  it  but  according  to  the 
trick  :  If  you  will  hang  me  for  it,  you  may,  but  I  had  rather 
it  would  please  you  I  might  be  whipped. 

Duke.    Whipped  first,  sir,  and  hanged  after. — 
Proclaim  it,  provost,  round  about  the  city ; 
If  any  woman's  wronged  by  this  lewd  fellow, 
(As  I  have  heard  him  swear  himself,  there's  one 
Whom  he  begot  with  child,)  let  her  appear, 
And  he  shall  marry  her :  the  nuptial  finished, 
Let  him  be  whipped  and  hanged. 

Lucio.  I  beseech  your  highness,  do  not  marry  me  to  a 
whore  !  Your  highness  said  even  now,  I  made  you  a  duke ; 
good  my  lord,  do  not  recompense  me  in  making  me  a  cuckold. 

Duke.    Upon  mine  honor,  thou  shalt  marry  her. 
Thy  slanders  I  forgive ;  and  therewithal 
Remit  thy  other  forfeits.  —  Take  him  to  prison; 
And  see  our  pleasure  herein  executed. 


ActY.]       measure    for    measure.  325 

Lucio.    Marrying  a  punk,  my  lord,  is  pressing  to  death, 
whipping,  and  hanging. 

Duke.    Shxndering  a  prince  deserves  it. — 
She,   Claudio,  that  you  wronged,  look  you  restore. 
Joy  to  you,  Mariana!  —  Love  her,  Angelo ; 
I  have  confessed  her,  and  I  know  her  virtue, — 
Thanks,  good  friend  Escalus,  for  thy  much  goodness: 
There's  more  behind,  that  is  more  gratulate. 
Thanks,  provost,  for  thy  care  and  secrecy : 
We  shall  employ  thee  in  a  worthier  place  :  — 
Forgive  him,  Angelo,  that  brought  you  home 
The  head  of  Ragozine  for  Claudio's  ; 
The  oflfence  pardons  itself.  —  Dear  Isabel, 
I  have  a  motion  much  imports  your  good; 
Whereto  if  you'll  a  willing  ear  incline, 
What's  mine  is  yours,  and  what  is  yours  is  mine. — 
So,  bring  us  to  our  palace ;  where  we'll  show 
What's  yet  behind,  that's  meet  you  all  should  know. 

\^Exeunt. 


2c 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


327 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

Don  Pedro,  Prince  of  Arragon. 
Don  John,  his  bastard  Brother. 
Claudio,  a   young  Lord   of  Florence,  favorite    to   Don 

Pedro. 
Benedick,  a  young  Lord  of  Padua,  favorite  likewise  of 

Don  Pedro. 
Leonato,   Governor  of  Messina. 
Antonio,  his  Brother. 
Balthazar,   Servant  to  Don  Pedro. 

BoRACHio,  I  p^ii^^^,^^^  ^f  j)on  John 
Conrade,    j 

Dogberry,  )  ,       r    t  i    no: 
^ir  '  y  two  fnolisk  Officers. 

VERGES,         ) 

A  Sexton. 
A   Friar. 
A  Boy. 

Hero,  Daughter  to  Leonato. 
Beatrice,  JViece  to  Leonato. 

Margaret,    |    Gentlewomen  attending  on  Hero. 
Ursula,        j  " 

Messengers,   Watch,  and  Attendants. 

SCENE.     Messina. 


(338) 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


ACT    I. 

SCENE  I.     Before  Leonato's  Hou^e. 

Enter  Leonato,    Hero,   Beatrice,    and  others,    with    a 

Messenger. 

Leonato.  I  learn  in  this  letter,  that  Don  Pedro  of  Arra- 
gon  comes  this  night  to  Messina. 

Mess,  He  is  very  near  by  this  ;  he  was  not  three  leagues 
off  when  1  left  him. 

Leon.     How  many  gentlemen  have  you  lost  in  this  action : 

Mess.     But  few  of  any  sort,  and  none  of  name. 

Leon.  A  victory  is  twice  itself,  when  the  achiever  brings 
home  full  numbers.  I  find  here,  that  don  Pedro  hath  be- 
stowed much  honor  on  a  young  Florentine,  called  Claudio. 

Mess.  Much  deserved  on  his  part,  and  equally  remem- 
bered by  don  Pedro :  he  hath  borne  himself  beyond  the 
promise  of  his  age  ;  doing,  in  the  figure  of  a  lamb,  the  feats 
of  a  lion  :  he  hath,  indeed,  better  bettered  expectation,  than 
you  must  expect  of  me  to  tell  you  how. 

Leon.  He  hath  an  uncle  here  in  Messina  will  be  very 
much  glad  of  it. 

Mess.  I  have  already  delivered  him  letters,  and  there 
appears  much  joy  in  him ;  eved  so  much,  that  joy  could  not 
show  itself  modest  enough,  without  a  badge  of  bitterness. 

Leon.    Did  he  break  out  into  tears  ? 

Mess.    In  great  measure. 

Leon.  A  kind  overflow  of  kindness :  there  are  no  faces 
truer  than  those  that  are  so  washed.  How  much  better  it 
is  to  weep  at  joy,  than  to  joy  at  weeping  ! 

Beat.  I  pray  you,  is  seignoir  Montanto  returned  from  the 
wars,  or  no  ? 

Mess.  I  know  none  of  that  name,  lady ;  there  was  none 
such  in  the  army  of  any  sort. 

Leon.    What  is  he  that  you  ask  for,  niece  ? 

Hero.    My  cousin  means  seignior  Benedick  of  Padua. 
20*  (329) 


380  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.         [Act  I 

Mess.    0,  he  is  returned ;  and  as  pleasant  as  ever  He  was. 

Beat.  He  set  up  his  bills  here  in  Messina,  and  challenged 
Cupid  at  the  flight :  and  my  uncle's  fool,  reading  the  chal- 
lenge, subscribed  for  Cupid,  and  challenged  him  at  the  bird- 
bolt.  I  pray  you,  how  many  hath  he  killed  and  eaten  in 
these  wars  ?  But  how  many  hath  he  killed  ?  For,  indeed, 
I  promised  to  eat  all  of  his  killing. 

Leon.  Faith,  niece,  you  tax  seignoir  Benedick  too  much; 
but  he'll  be  meet  with  you,  I  doubt  it  not. 

Mess.    He  hath  done  good  service,  lady,  in  these  wars. 

Beat.  You  had  musty  victual,  and  he  hath  holp  to  eat 
it :  he  is  a  very  valiant  trencher-man ;  he  hath  an  excellent 
stomach. 

Mess.    And  a  good  soldier  too,  lady. 

Beat.  And  a  good  soldier  to  a  lady ;  but  what  is  he  to  a 
lord  ? 

Mess.  A  lord  to  a  lord,  a  man  to  a  man ;  stuffed  with  all 
honorable  virtues. 

Beat.  It  is  so,  indeed ;  he  is  no  less  than  a  stuffed  man  : 
but  for  the  stuffing,  —  well,  we  are  all  mortal. 

Leon.  You  must  not,  sir,  mistake  my  niece ;  there  is  a 
kind  of  merry  war  betwixt  seignior  Benedick  and  her  :  they 
never  meet,  but  there  is  a  skirmish  of  wit  between  them. 

Beat.  Alas,  he  gets  nothing  by  that.  In  our  last  conflict, 
four  of  his  five  wits  went  halting  off,  and  now  is  the  whole 
man  governed  with  one ;  so  that  if  he  have  wit  enough  to 
keep  himself  warm,  let  him  bear  it  for  a  difference  between 
himself  and  his  horse ;  for  it  is  all  the  wealth  that  he  hath 
left,  to  be  known  a  reasonable  creature.  —  Who  is  his  com- 
panion now  ?  He  hath  every  month  a  new  sworn  brother. 

Mess.    Is  it  possible  ? 

Beat.  Very  easily  possible  :  he  wears  his  faith  but  as  the^ 
fashion  of  his  hat ;  it  ever  changes  with  the  next  block. 

Mess.    I  see,  lady,  the  gentleman  is  not  in  your  books. 

Beat.  No :  an  he  were,  I  would  burn  my  study.  But,  I 
pray  you,  who  is  his  companion  ?  Is  there  no  young  squarer 
now,  that  will  make  a  voyage  with  him  to  the  devil  ? 

3Iess.  He  is  most  in  the  company  of  the  right  noble 
Ciaudio. 

Beat.  0  Lord !  He  will  hang  upon  him  like  a  disease : 
he  is  S(  cner  caught  than  the  pestilence,  and  the  taker  runs 
presently  mad.  God  help  the  noble  Ciaudio  !  If  he  have 
caught  the  Benedick,  it  will  cost  him  a  thousand  pounds  ere 
he  be  cured. 

Mess.    I  will  hold  friends  with  you,  lady. 

Beat.    Do,  good  friend. 


AotL]  much  ado  about  nothing.  331 

Leon.   You  will  liever  run  mad,  niece. 
Beat.    No,  not  till  a  hot  January. 
Mess.    Don  Pedro  is  approached. 

Enter  Don  Pedro,  attended  hy  Balthazar  and  others, 
Don  John,  Claudio,  and  Benedick. 

B.  Pedro.  Good  seignior  Leonato,  you  are  come  to  meet 
your  trouble :  the  fashion  of  the  world  is  to  avoid  cost,  and 
you  encounter  it. 

Leon.  Never  came  trouble  to  my  house  in  the  likeness 
of  your  grace ;  for  trouble  being  gone,  comfort  should 
remain ;  but,  when  you  depart  from  me,  sorrow  abides,  and 
happiness  takes  his  leave. 

D.  Pedro.  You  embrace  your  charge  too  willingly.  I 
think,  this  is  your  daughter. 

Leon.    Her  mother  hath  many  times  told  me  so. 

Bene.    Were  you  in  doubt,  sir,  that  you  asked  her? 

Leon.    Seignior  Benedick,  no  ;  for  then  were  you  a  child 

B.  Pedro.  You  have  it  full.  Benedick :  we  may  guess  by 
this  what  you  are,  being  a  man.  Truly  the  lady  fathers 
herself :  —  Be  happy,  lady  !  For  you  are  like  an  honorable 
father. 

Bene.  If  seignior  Leonato  be  her  father,  she  would  not 
have  his  head  on  her  shoulders,  for  all  Alessina,  as  like  him 
as  she  is. 

Beat.  I  wonder  that  you  will  still  be  talking,  seignior 
Benedick  ;  nobody  marks  you. 

Bene.  What,  my  dear  lady  Disdain  ! — are  you  yet  living  ? 

Beat.  Is  it  possible  disdain  should  die,  while  she  hath 
such  meet  food  to  feed  it  as  seignior  Benedick  ?  Courtesy 
itself  must  convert  to  disdain,  if  you  come  in  her  presence. 

Bene.  Then  is  courtesy  a  turncoat :  —  but  it  is  certain, 
I  am  loved  of  all  ladies,  only  you  excepted ;  and  I  would  I 
could  find  in  my  heart  that  I  had  not  a  hard  heart ;  for, 
truly,  I  love  none. 

Beat.  A  dear  happiness  to  women  ;  they  would  else  have 
been  troubled  with  a  pernicious  suitor.  I  thank  God,  and 
my  cold  blood,  I  am  of  your  humor  for  that ;  I  had  rather 
hear  my  dog  bark  at  a  crow,  than  a  man  swear  he  loves  me. 

Bene,  God  keep  your  ladyship  still  in  that  mind  !  so  some 
gentleman  or  other  shall  'scape  a  predestinate  scratched  face. 

Beat.  Scratching  could  not  make  it  worse,  an  'twere  such 
<i  face  as  yours  were. 

Bene.    Well,  you  are  a  rare  parrot-teacher. 

Beat.  A  bird  of  my  tongue  is  better  than  a  beast  of  yours. 

Bene.    I  would  my  horse  had  the  speed  of  your  tongue ; 


332     .  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  [Act  I 

and  so  good  a  continuer  :  but  keep  your  way  o'  God's  name , 
T  hiive  done. 

Beat.  You  always  end  with  a  jade's  trick  ;  I  know  you 
of  old. 

D.  Pedro.  This  is  the  sura  of  all :  Leonato,  —  seignior 
Claudio,  and  seignior  Benedick,  —  my  dear  friend  Leonato 
hath  invited  you  all.  I  tell  him,  we  shall  stay  here  at  the 
least  a  month ;  and  he  heartily  prays,  some  occasion  may 
detain  us  longer :  I  dare  swear  he  is  no  hypocrite,  but  prays 
from  his  heart. 

Leon.  If  you  swear,  my  lord,  you  shall  not  be  forsworn. — 
Let  me  bid  you  welcome,  my  lord ;  being  reconciled  to  the 
prince  your  brother,  I  owe  you  all  duty. 

I).  John.  I  thank  you :  I  am  not  of  many  words,  but  I 
thank  you. 

Leon.    Please  it  your  grace  lead  on  ? 

D.  Pedro.  Your  hand,  Leonato ;  we  will  go  together. 

\_Exeunt  all  but  Benedick  and  Claudio. 

Claud.  Benedick,  didst  thou  note  the  daughter  of  seignior 
Leonato  ? 

Bene.    I  noted  her  not ;  but  I  looked  on  her. 

Claud.    Is  she  not  a  modest  young  lady  ? 

Bene.  Do  you  question  me  as  an  honest  man  should  do, 
for  my  simple  true  judgment  ?  Or  would  you  have  me  speak 
after  my  custom,  as  being  a  professed  tyrant  to  their  sex  ? 

Claud.    No,  I  pray  thee,  speak  in  sober  judgment. 

Bene.  Why,  i'faith,  methinks  she  is  too  low  for  a  high 
praise,  too  brown  for  a  fair  praise,  and  too  little  for  a  great 
praise :  only  this  commendation  I  can  afford  her  :  that  were 
she  other  than  she  is,  she  were  unhandsome ;  and  being  no 
other  but  as  she  is,  I  do  not  like  her. 

Claud.  Thou  thinkest  I  am  in  sport ;  I  pray  thee,  tell 
me  truly  how  thou  likest  her. 

Bene.  Would  you  buy  her,  that  you  inquire  after  her  ? 

Claud.  Can  the  world  buy  such  a  jewel  ? 

Bene.  Yea,  and  a  case  to  put  it  into.  But  speak  you  this 
y  ith  a  sad  brow  ?  Or  do  you  play  the  flouting  Jack  ;  to  tell 
us  Cupid  is  a  good  hare-finder,  and  Vulcan  a  rare  carpenter  ? 
Come,  in  what  key  shall  a  man  take  you  to  go  in  the  song  ? 

Claud.  In  mine  eye,  she  is  the  sweetest  lady  that  ever  I 
looked  on. 

Bene.  I  can  see  yet  without  spectacles,  and  I  see  no  such 
matter :  there's  her  cousin,  an  she  were  not  possessed  with 
a  fury,  exceeds  her  as  much  in  beauty  as  the  first  of  May 
doth  the  last  of  December.  But  I  hope  you  have  no  intent 
to  turn  husband;  have  you? 


Act  I.]  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  .  338 

Olaud.  I  would  scarce  trust  myself,  though  I  had  sworn 
the  contrary,  if  Hero  would  be  my  wife. 

Bene.  Is  it  come  to  this,  i'faith  ?  Hath  not  the  world 
one  man,  but  he  will  wear  his  cap  with  suspicion  ?  Shall  I 
never  see  a  bachelor  of  threescore  again  ?  Go  to,  i'faith ; 
an  thou  wilt  needs  thrust  thy  neck  into  a  yoke,  wear  the 
print  of  it,  and  sigh  away  Sundays.  Look,  don  Pedro  ia 
returned  to  seek  you. 

Re-enter  Don  Pedro. 

D.  Pedro.  What  secret  hath  held  you  here,  that  you  fol- 
lowed not  to  Leonato's  ? 

Bene.  I  would  your  grace  would  constrain  me  to  tell. 

I).  Pedro.    I  charge  thee  on  thy  allegiance. 

Bene.  You  hear,  count  Claudio  :  I  can  be  secret  as  a 
dumb  man,  I  would  have  you  think  so ;  but  on  my  alle- 
giance, —  mark  you  this,  on  my  allegiance  :  —  he  is  in  love. 
With  who  ?  —  Now  that  is  your  grace's  part.  —  Mark  how 
short  his  answer  is :  — with  Hero,  Leonato's  short  daughter. 

Claud.    If  this  were  so,  so  were  it  uttered. 

Bene.  Like  the  old  tale,  my  lord :  it  is  not  so,  nor  'twas 
not  so ;  but,  indeed,  God  forbid  it  should  be  so. 

Qlaud.  If  my  passion  change  not  shortly,  God  forbid  it 
should  be  otherwise. 

D.  Pedro.  Amen,  if  you  love  her ;  for  the  lady  is  very 
well  worthy. 

Claud.    You  speak  this  to  fetch  me  in,  my  lord. 

I).  Pedro.    By  my  troth,  I  speak  my  thought. 

Claud.    And,  in  faith,  my  lord,  I  spoke  mine. 

Bene.  And,  by  my  two  faiths  and  troths,  my  lord,  I 
spoke  mine. 

Claud.    That  I  love  her,  I  feel. 

D.  Pedro.    That  she  is  Avorthy,  I  know. 

Bene.  That  I  neither  feel  how  she  should  be  loved,  nor 
know  how  she  should  be  worthy,  is  the  opiaion  that  fire  can- 
not melt  out  of  me ;  I  will  die  in  it  at  the  stake. 

D.  Pedro.  Thou  wast  ever  an  obstinate  heretic  in  the 
despite  of  beauty. 

Claud.  And  never  could  maintain  his  part,  but  in  the 
force  of  his  will. 

Bene.  That  a  woman  conceived  me,  I  thank  her :  that 
she  brought  me  up,  I  likewise  give  her  most  humble  thanks ; 
but  that  I  will  have  a  recheat  winded  in  my  forehead,  or 
hang  my  bugle  in  an  invisible  buldrick,  all  women  shall  par- 
don me  :  because  I  will  not  do  them  the  wrong  to  mistrust 
any,  I  will  do  myself  the  right  to  trust  none ;  and  the  fine 
is,  (for  the  which  I  may  go  the  finer,)  I  will  live  a  bachelor. 


334  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  [Act  L 

7).  Pedro.  I  shall  see  thee,  ere  I  die,  look  pale  with  love. 
Bene.  With  anger,  with  sickness,  or  with  hunger,  my 
lord ;  not  with  love :  prove  that  ever  I  lose  more  blood  with 
love,  than  I  will  get  again  with  drinking,  pick  out  mine  eyes 
with  a  ballad-maker's  pen,  and  hang  me  up  at  the  door  of 
a  brothel-house,  for  the  sign  of  blind  Cupid. 

D.  Pedro.  Well,  if  ever  thou  dost  fall  from  this  faith, 
thou  wilt  prove  a  notable  argument. 

Bene.  If  I  do,  hang  me  in  a  bottle  like  a  cat,  and  shoot 
at  me  ;  and  he  that  hits  me,  let  him  be  clapped  on  the  shoul- 
der, and  called  Adam. 

D.  Pedro.    Well,  as  time  shall  try: 
In  time  the  savage  hull  doth  hear  the  yoke. 

Bene.  The  savage  bull  may ;  but  if  ever  this  sensible 
Benedick  bear  it,  pluck  off  the  bull's  horns,  and  set  them  in 
my  forehead :  and  let  me  be  vilely  painted ;  and  in  such 
great  letters  as  they  write,  Here  is  good  horse  to  hire.,  let 
them  signify  under  my  sign,  —  Here  you  may  see  Benedick 
the  married  man. 

Claud.  If  this  should  ever  happen,  thou  would'st  be  horn- 
mad. 

B.  Pedro.  Nay,  if  Cupid  have  not  spent  all  his  quiver  in 
Venice,  thou  wilt  quake  for  this  shortly. 
Bene.  I  look  for  an  earthquake  too  then. 
B.  Pedro.  Well,  you  will  temporise  with  the  hours.  In 
the  mean  time,  good  seignior  Benedick,  repair  to  Leonato's  ; 
commend  me  to  him,  and  tell  him,  I  will  not  fail  him  at 
supper ;  for,  indeed,  he  hath  made  great  preparation. 

Bene.  I  have  almost  matter  enough  in  me  for  such  an 
embassage:  and  so  I  commit  you  — 

Claud.  To  the  tuition  of  God :  From  my  house,  (if  I 
had  it) — 

B.  Pedro.  The  sixth  of  July  :  Your  loving  friend,  Bene- 
dick. 

Bene.  Nay,  mock  not,  mock  not :  the  body  of  your  dis- 
course is  sometime  guarded  with  fragments,  and  the  guards 
are  but  slightly  basted  on  neither ;  ere  you  flout  old  ends 
any  further,  examine  your  conscience,  and  so  I  leave  you. 

\Exit  Benedick. 
Claud.    My  liege,  your  highness  now  may  do  me  good. 
B.  Pedro.    My  love  is  thine  to  teach :  teach  it  but  how, 
And  thou  shalt  see  how  apt  it  is  to  learn 
Any  hard  lesson  that  may  do  thee  good. 
Claud.    Hath  Leonato  any  son,  my  lord  ? 
B.  Pedro.    No  child  but  Hero ;  she's  his  only  heir ; 
Dost  thou  affect  her,   Claudio  ? 


Act  I.]  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  335 

Claud.  0,  my  lord, 

When  you  went  onward  on  this  ended  action, 
I  looked  upon  her  with  a  soldier's  eye, 
That  liked,  but  had  a  rougher  task  in  hand 
Than  to  drive  liking  to  the  name  of  love : 
But  now  I  am  returned,  and  that  war-thoughts 
Have  left  their  places  vacant,  in  their  rooms 
Come  thronging  soft  and  delicate  desires, 
All  prompting  me  how  fair  young  Hero  is. 
Saying,  I  liked  her  ere  I  went  to  wars. 

D.  Pedro.    Thou  wilt  be  like  a  lover  presently, 
And  tire  the  hearer  with  a  book  of  words : 
If  thou  dost  love  fair  Hero,  cherish  it ; 
And  I  will  break  with  her,  and  with  her  father, 
And  thou  shalt  have  her :  was't  not  to  this  end, 
That  thou  began'st  to  twist  so  fine  a  story  ? 

Claud.    How  sweetly  do  you  minister  to  love, 
That  know  love's  grief  by  his  complexion ! 
But  lest  my  liking  might  too  sudden  seem, 
I  would  have  salved  it  with  a  longer  treatise. 

D.  Pedro.    What  need  the  bridge  much  broader  than  the 
flood? 
The  fairest  grant  is  the  necessity : 
Look,  what  will  serve,  is  fit :   'tis  once,  thou  lov'st ; 
And  I  will  fit  thee  with  the  remedy. 
I  know  we  shall  have  revelling  to-night ; 
I  will  assume  thy  part  in  some  disguise, 
And  tell  fair  Hero  I  am  Claudio ; 
And  in  her  bosom  I'll  unclasp  my  heart, 
And  take  her  hearing  prisoner  with  the  force 
And  strong  encounter  of  my  amorous  tale : 
Then,  after,  to  her  father  will  I  break ; 
And  the  conclusion  is,  she  shall  be  thine : 
In  practice  let  us  put  it  presently.  [Exeunt, 

SCENE  II.     A  Room  in  Leonato's  Rouse. 
Enter  Leonato  and  Antonio. 

Leon.  How  now,  brother?  Where  is  my  cousin,  youT 
Bon  ?     Hath  he  provided  this  music  ? 

Ant.  He  is  very  busy  about  it.  But,  brother,  I  can  tell 
you  strange  news  that  you  yet  dreamed  not  of. 

Leon.    Are  they  good  ? 

Ant.  As  the  event  stamps  them  ;  but  they  have  a  good 
cover ;    they  show   well  outward.     The  prince  and   count 


336  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  [Act  1. 

Claudio,  walkinf);  in  a  thick-pleaslied  alley  in  my  orchard, 
were  thus  much  overheard  by  a  man  of  mine.  The  prince 
discovered  to  Claudio,  that  he  loved  my  niece  your  daughter, 
and  meant  to  acknowledge  it  this  night  in  a  dance ;  and,  if 
he  found  her  accordant,  he  meant  to  take  the  present  time 
by  the  top,  and  instantly  break  with  you  of  it. 

Leon.    Hath  the  fellow  any  wit,  that  told  you  this  ? 

Ant.  A  good  sharp  fellow :  I  will  send  for  him,  and 
question  him  yourself. 

Leon.  No,  no ;  we  will  hold  it  as  a  dream,  till  it  appear 
itself:  —  but  I  will  acquaint  my  daughter  withal,  that  she 
may  be  the  better  prepared  for  an  answer,  if  peradventure 
this  be  true.  Go  you,  and  tell  her  of  it.  [^Sevei'al  persons 
cross  the  stage.']  Cousins,  you  know  what  you  have  to  do. 
—  0,  I  cry  you  mercy,  friend ;  you  go  with  me,  and  I  will 
use  3'our  skill :  —  good  cousins,  have  a  care  this  busy  time. 

[^Lxeunt. 

SCENE  III.     Another  Room  in  Leonato's  House. 
Enter  Don  John  and  Conrade. 

Con.  What  the  goodjere,  my  lord  !  Why  are  you  thus 
out  of  measure  sad  ? 

D.  John.  There  is  no  measure  in  the  occasion  that  breeds 
it,  therefore  the  sadness  is  without  limit. 

Con.    You  should  hear  reason. 

D.  John.  And  when  I  have  heard  it,  what  blessing  bring- 
eth  it? 

Con.    If  not  a  present  remedy,  yet  a  patient  sufferance. 

D.  John.  I  wonder,  that  thou,  being  (as  thou  say'st  thou 
art)  born  under  Saturn,  goest  about  to  apply  a  moral  medi- 
cine to  a  mortifying  mischief.  I  cannot  hide  what  I  am :  I- 
must  be  sad  when  I  have  cause,  and  smile  at  no  man's  jests  ; 
eat  when  I  have  stomach,  and  wait  for  no  man's  leisure ; 
sleep  when  I  am  drowsy,  and  tend  to  no  man's  business  ; 
laugh  when  I  am  merry,  and  claw  no  man  in  his  humor. 

Con.  Yea,  but  you  must  not  make  the  full  show  of  this, 
till  you  may  do  it  without  controlment.  You  have  of  late 
stood  out  against  your  brother,  and  he  hath  ta'en  you  newly 
into  his  grace ;  where  it  is  impossible  you  should  take  true 
root,  but  by  the  fair  weather  that  you  make  yourself:  it  is 
needful  that  you  frame  the  season  for  your  own  harvest. 

D.  John.  I  had  rather  be  a  canker  in  a  hedge,  than  a 
rose  in  his  grace  ;  and  it  better  fits  my  blood  to  be  disdained 
of  all,  than  to  fashion  a  carriage  to  rob  love  from  any ;  in 
this,  though  I  cannot  be  said  to  be  a  flattering  honest  man, 


Act  I.]  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  337 

it  must  not  be  denied  that  I  am  a  plain-dealing  villain.  I 
am  trusted  with  a  muzzle,  and  enfranchised  with  a  clog ; 
therefore  I  have  decreed  not  to  sing  in  my  cage :  If  I  had 
ray  mouth,  I  would  bite  ;  if  I  had  my  liberty^  1  would  do  my 
liking :  in  the  mean  time,  let  me  be  that  I  am,  and  seek  not 
to  alter  me. 

Qon.    Can  you  make  no  use  of  your  discontent? 
D.  John.    I  make  all  use  of  it,  for  I  use  it  only.     Who 
comes  here  ?     What  news,  Borachio  ? 

Enter  Borachio. 

Bora.  I  came  yonder  from  a  great  supper ;  the  prince, 
your  brother,  is  royally  entertained  by  Leonato ;  and  I  can 
give  you  intelligence  of  an  intended  marriage. 

D.  John.  Will  it  serve  for  any  model  to  build  mischief 
on  ?  What  is  he  for  a  fool,  that  betroths  himself  to  unqui- 
etness  ? 

Bora.    Marry,  it  is  your  brother's  right  hand. 

D.  John.    Who  ?  the  most  exquisite  Claudio  ? 

Bora.   Even  he. 

jD.  John.  A  proper  squire  !  And  who,  and  who  ?  Which 
way  looks  he? 

Bora.    Marry,  on  Hero,  the  daughter  and  heir  of  Leonato. 
D.  John.    A  very  forAvard  March  chick  !    How  came  you 

to  this  ? 

Bora.  Being  entertained  for  a  perfumer,  as  I  w^as  smok- 
ing a  musty  room,  comes  me  the  prince  and  Claudio,  hand 
in  hand,  in  sad  conference  :  I  whipped  me  behind  the  arras ; 
and  there  heard  it  agreed  upon,  that  the  prince  should  woo 
Hero  for  himself,  and  having  obtained  her,  give  her  to  count 
Claudio. 

D.  John.  Come,  come,  let  us  thither;  this  may  prove 
food  to  my  displeasure ;  that  young  start-up  hath  all  the 
glory  of  my  overthrow ;  if  I  can  cross  him  any  way,  I  bless 
myself  every  way.     You  are  both  sure,  and  will  assist  me  ? 

Oon.    To  the  death,  my  lord. 

D.  John.  Let  us  to  the  great  supper  ;  their  cheer  is  tho 
greater,  that  I  am  subdued:  would  the  cook  were  of  my 
mind  !  —  Shall  we  go  prove  what's  to  be  done  ? 

Bora.    We'll  wait  upon  your  lordship.  [Exeunt. 

Vol.  L  — 22  2d 


338  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.         fAcT  IT. 

ACT   II. 

SCENE  I.     A  Hall  in  Leonato's  House. 
Enter  Leonato,  Antonio,  Hero,  Beatrice,  and  others. 

Leon     Was  not  count  John  here  at  supper? 

Ant.    I  saw  liim  not. 

Beat.  How  tartly  that  gentleman  looks  !  I  never  can  see 
him,  but  I  am  heart-burned  an  hour  after. 

Htro.    He  is  of  a  very  melancholy  disposition. 

Beat.  He  were  an  excellent  man,  that  were  made  just  in 
the  mid-'way  between  him  and  Benedick :  the  one  is  too  like 
an  image,  and  says  nothing ;  and  the  other,  too  like  my 
lady's  eldest  son,  evermore  tattling. 

Leon.  Then  half  seignior  Benedick's  tongue  in  count 
John's  mouth,  and  half  count  John's  melancholy  in  seignior 
Benedick's  face, — 

Beat.  With  a  good  leg,  and  a  good  foot,  uncle,  and  money 
enough  in  his  purse,  such  a  man  would  vrin  any  woman  in 
the  world,  —  if  he  could  get  her  good  will. 

Leon.  By  my  troth,  niece,  thou  wilt  never  get  thee  a 
husband,  if  thou  be  so  shrewd  of  thy  tongue. 

Ant.    In  faith,  she  is  too  curst. 

Beat.  Too  curst  is  more  than  curst:  I  shall  lessen  God's 
sending  that  way :  for  it  is  said,  Crod  sends  a  curst  cow 
short  horns  ;  but  to  a  cow  too  curst  he  sends  none. 

Leon.  So,  by  being  too  curst,  God  will  send  you  no  horns. 

Beat.  Just,  if  he  send  me  no  husband :  for  the  which 
blessing,  I  am  at  him  upon  my  knees  every  morning  and 
evening :  lord  !  I  could  not  endure  a  husband  Avith  a  beard 
on  his  face  ;  I  had  rather  lie  in  the  woollen. 

Leon.  You  may  light  upon  a  husband  that  hath  no  beard. 

Beat.  What  should  I  do  with  him  ?  dress  him  in  my 
apparel,  and  make  him  my  waiting  gentlewoman  ?  He  that 
hath  a  beard,  is  more  than  a  youth  ;  and  he  that  hath  no 
beard,  is  less  than  a  man  :  and  he  that  is  more  than  a  youth, 
is  not  for  me  :  and  he  that  is  less  than  a  man,  I  am  not  for 
him.  Therefore  I  will  even  take  sixpence  in  earnest  of  the 
bear-herd,  and  lead  his  apes  into  hell. 

I^eon.    Well,  then,  go  you  into  hell? 

Beat.  No ;  but  to  the  gate  ;  and  there  will  the  devil  meet 
me,  like  an  old  cuckold,  Avith  horns  on  his  head,  and  say, 
Gei  you  to  heaven,  Beatrice,  get  you  to  heaven;  heres  no 


Act  II.]         MTTCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  339 

place  for  you  maids :  so  deliver  I  up  mj  apes,  and  away  to 
Saint  Peter  for  the  heavens :  he  shows  me  where  the  bache- 
lors sit.  and  there  live  we  as  merry  as  the  day  is  long. 

Ant.  Well,  niece,  \_To  Hero.]  I  trust  you  will  be  ruled 
by  your  father. 

Beat.  Yes,  faith ;  it  is  my  cousin's  duty  to  make  courtesy, 
and  say,  Father,  as  it  pZ<?ase  t/ou :  —  but  yet  for  all  that, 
cousin,  let  him  be  a  handsome  fellow,  or  else  make  another 
courtesy,  and  say.  Father,  as  it  2Jlease  me. 

Leon.  Well,  niece,  I  hope  to  see  you  one  day  fitted  with 
a  husband. 

Beat.  Not  till  God  make  men  of  some  other  metal  than 
earth.  Would  it  not  grieve  a  woman  to  be  overmastered 
with  a  piece  of  valiant  dust  ?  To  make  an  account  of  her 
life  to  a  clod  of  wayward  marl  ?  No,  uncle,  I'll  none : 
Adam's  sons  are  my  brethren ;  and  truly,  I  hold  it  a  sin  to 
match  in  my  kindred. 

Leon.  Daughter,  remember  what  I  told  you ;  if  tho 
prince  do  solicit  you  in  that  kind,  you  know  your  answer. 

Beat.  The  fault  will  be  in  the  music,  cousin,  if  you  be 
not  wooed  in  good  time :  if  the  prince  be  too  important,  tell 
him,  there  is  measure  in  every  thing,  and  so  dance  out  the 
answer.  For  hear  me,  Hero ;  wooing,  wedding,  and  re- 
penting, is  as  a  Scotch  jig,  a  measure,  and  a  cinque-pace ; 
the  first  suit  is  hot  and  hasty,  like  a  Scotch  jig,  and  full  as 
fantastical ;  the  wedding,  mannerly-modest,  as  a  measure 
full  of  state  and  ancientry ;  and  then  comes  repentance,  and, 
with  his  bad  legs,  falls  into  the  cinque-pace  faster  and  faster, 
till  he  sink  into  his  grave. 

Leon.    Cousin,  you  apprehend  passing  shrewdly. 

Beat.  I  have  a  good  eye,  uncle ;  I  can  see  a  church  by 
day-light. 

Leon.  The  revellers  are  entering;  brother,  make  good 
room. 

Enter  Don  Pedro,  Claudio,  Benedick,  Balthazas; 
Don  John,  Borachio,  Margaret,  Ursula,  and  others 
masked. 

D.  Pedro.    Lady,  will  you  walk  about  with  your  friend  ? 

Hero.  So  you  walk  softly,  and  look  sweetly,  and  say 
nothing,  I  am  yours  for  the  walk ;  and,  especially,  when 
I  walk  away. 

D.  Pedro.    With  me  in  your  company? 

Hero.    I  may  say  so,  when  I  please. 

J).  Pedro.    And  when  please  you  to  say  eo? 


340  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHINCr.         [Act  II. 

Hero.  "When  I  like  yovir  favor  ;  f  jr  God  defend,  the  lute 
shouUl  be  like  the  case  ! 

D.  Pedro.  Mj  visor  is  Philemon's  roof ;  ■within  the  house 
is  Jove. 

Hero.    Why,  then,  your  visor  sliould  be  thatched. 

D.  Pedro.    Speak  low,  if  you  speak  love. 

\_Takes  Iter  aside. 

Bene.    Well,  I  would  you  did  like  me. 

Marg.  So  would  not  I,  for  your  own  sake ;  for  I  have 
many  ill  qualities. 

Bene.    Which  is  one? 

Marg.    I  say  my  prayers  aloud. 

Bene.    I  love  you  the  better  ;  the  hearers  may  cry,  Amen. 

Marg.    God  match  me  with  a  good  dancer  ! 

Balth.   Amen. 

Marg.  And  God  keep  him  out  of  my  sight,  when  the 
dance  is  done!  —  Answer,  clerk. 

Balth.    No  more  words ;  the  clerk  is  answered. 

Urs.  I  know  you  well  enough ;  you  are  seignior  Antonio. 

Ant.    At  a  word,  I  am  not. 

Urs.    I  know  you  by  the  waggling  of  your  head. 

Ant.    To  tell  you  true,  I  counterfeit  him. 

Urs.  You  could  never  do  him  so  ill-well,  unless  you  were 
the  very  man :  here's  his  dry  hand  up  and  down ;  you  are 
he,  you  ai-e  he. 

Ant.    At  a  word,  I  am  not. 

Urs.  Come,  come ;  do  you  think  I  do  not  know  you  by 
your  excellent  wit  ?  Can  virtue  hide  itself  ?  Go  to,  mum, 
you  are  he ;  graces  will  appear,  and  there's  an  end. 

Beat.    Will  you  not  tell  me  who  told  you  so  ? 

Bene.    No,  you  shall  pardon  me 

Beat.    Nor  will  you  not  tell  me  who  you  are  ? 

Bene.    Not  now. 

Beat.  That  I  was  disdainful,  —  and  that  I  had  my  good 
wit  out  of  the  Hundred  merry  Tales  ;  —  Well,  this  was  seig- 
nior Benedick  that  said  so. 

Bene.    What's  he  ? 

Beat.    I  am  sure,  you  know  him  well  enough. 

Bene.    Not  I,  believe  me. 

Beat.    Did  he  never  make  you  laugh  ? 

Bene.    I  pray  you,  what  is  he? 

Beat.  Why,  he  is  the  prince's  jester ;  a  very  dull  fool , 
only  his  gift  is  in  devising  impossible  slanders :  none  but 
libertines  delight  in  him  ;  and  the  commendation  is  not  in 
his  wit,  but  in  his  villany ;  for  he  both  pleaseth  men,  and 


Act  II J         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  341 

angers  them,  and  then  they  laugh  at  him,  and  beat  him :  I 
am  sure  he  is  in  the  fleet :  I  would  he  had  boarded  me. 

Bene.  When  I  know  the  gentleman,  I'll  tell  him  what 
you  say. 

Beat.  Do,  do :  he'll  but  break  a  comparison  or  two  on 
me ;  which,  peradventure,  not  marked,  or  not  laughed  at, 
strikes  him  into  melancholy ;  and  then  there's  a  partridge 
wing  saved,  for  the  fool  will  eat  no  supper  that  night. 

\_Music  within. 
"VVe  must  follow  the  leaders. 

Bene.    In  every  good  thing. 

Beat.  Nay,  if  they  lead  to  any  ill,  I  will  leave  them  at 
the  next  turning. 

[Dance.     Then  exeunt  all  hut  Don  John, 
BoRACHio,  and  Claudio. 

D.  John.  Sure  my  brother  is  amorous  on  Hero,  and  hath 
withdrawn  her  father  to  break  with  him  about  it :  the  ladies 
follow  her,  and  but  one  visor  remains. 

Bora.    And  that  is  Claudio  :  I  know  him  by  his  bearing. 

B.  John.    Are  not  you  seignior  Benedick  ? 

Claud.    You  know  me  well ;  I  am  he. 

J).  John.  Seignior,  you  are  very  near  my  brother  in  his 
love :  he  is  enamored  on  Hero ;  I  pray  you,  dissuade  him 
from  her ;  she  is  no  equal  for  his  birth :  you  may  do  the 
part  of  an  honest  man  in  it. 

Claud.    How  know  you  he  loves  her  ? 

B.  John.    I  heard  him  swear  his  affection. 

Bora.  So  did  I  too ;  and  he  swore  he  would  marry  her 
to-night. 

B.  John.    Come,  let  us  to  the  banquet. 

\_Exeunt  Don  John  and  Borachio. 

Claud.    Thus  answer  I  in  name  of  Benedick, 
But  hear  these  ill  news  with  the  ears  of  Claudio. — ■ 
'Tis  certain  so ;  —  the  prince  wooes  for  himself. 
Friendship  is  constant  in  all  other  things, 
Save  in  the  office  and  affairs  of  love : 
Therefore,  all  hearts  in  love  use  their  own  tongues, 
Let  every  eye  negotiate  for  itself, 
And  trust  no  agent ;  for  beauty  is  a  witch, 
Against  whose  charms  faith  melteth  into  blood. 
This  is   in  accident  of  hourly  proof. 
Which  1  mistrusted  not :  farewell,  therefore,  Hero ! 

Re-enter  Benedick. 

Bene.    Count  Claudio  ? 
Claud.    Yea,  the  same. 

2d* 


342  IMUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.         [Act  II 

Bene     Come,  -^ill  you  go  with  me? 

Claud.    Whither? 

Bene.  Even  to  the  next  -willow,  about  your  own  business, 
count.  AYhat  fashion  will  you  wear  the  garland  of?  About 
your  neck,  like  an  usurer's  chain  ?  or  under  your  arm,  like 
a  lieutenant's  scarf?  You  must  wear  it  one  way,  for  the 
prince  hath  got  your  Hero. 

Claud.    I  wish  him  joy  of  her. 

Bene.  Why,  that's  s})oken  like  an  honest  drover ;  so  they 
sell  bullocks.  But  did  you  think  the  prince  would  have 
served  you  thus  ? 

Claud.    I  pray  you,  leave  me. 

Bene.  Ho  !  now  you  strike  like  the  blind  man  :  'twas  the 
boy  that  stole  your  meat,  and  you'll  beat  the  post. 

Claud.    If  it  will  not  be,  I'll  leave  you.  \_Exit. 

Bene.   Alas,  poor    hurt  fowl !     Now  will  he   creep  into 

sedges. But,  that  my  lady  Beatrice  should  know  me, 

and  not  know  me  !  The  prince's  fool ! — Ha  !  it  may  be,  I  go 
under  that  title,  because  I  am  merry.  —  Yea ;  but  so ;  I  am 
apt  to  do  myself  wrong :  I  am  not  so  reputed :  it  is  the 
base,  the  bitter  disposition  of  Beatrice,  that  puts  the  w^orld 
into  her  person,  and  so  gives  me  out.  Well,  I'll  be  revenged 
as  I  may. 

Be-enter  Don  Pedro. 

D.  Pedro.  Now,  seignior,  where's  the  count  ?  Did  you 
see  him  ? 

Bene,  Troth,  my  lord,  I  have  played  the  part  of  lady 
Fame.  I  found  him  here  as  melancholy  as  a  lodge  in  a 
warren ;  I  told  him,  and,  I  think,  I  told  him  true,  that  your 
grace  had  got  the  good  will  of  this  young  lady ;  and  I 
offered  him  my  company  to  a  willow  tree,  either  to  make  hini 
a  garland,  as  being  forsaken,  or  to  bind  him  up  a  rod,  as 
being  worthy  to  be  whipped. 

D.  Pedro.    To  be  whipped  !     What's  his  fault  ? 

Bene.  The  flat  transgression  of  a  schoolboy ;  who,  being 
overjoyed  with  finding  a  bird's  nest,  shows  it  his  companion, 
and  he  steals  it. 

B.  Pedro.  Wilt  thou  make  a  trust  a  transgression  ?  The 
trangression  is  in  the  stealer. 

Bene.  Yet  it  had  not  been  amiss,  the  rod  had  been  made, 
and  the  garland  too ;  for  the  garland  he  might  have  worn 
nimself ;  and  the  rod  he  might  have  bestowed  on  you,  who, 
as  I  take  it,  have  stolen  his  bird's  nest. 

D.  Pedro.  I  will  but  teach  them  to  sing,  and  restore  them 
to  the  owner. 


Act  TL]         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  343 

Bene.  If  their  singing  answer  your  saying,  by  my  faith 
you  say  honestly. 

D.  Pedro.  The  lady  Beatrice  hath  a  quarrel  to  you ;  the 
gentleman,  that  danced  with  her,  told  her,  she  is  much 
wronged  by  you. 

Bene.  0,  she  misused  me  past  the  endurance  of  a  block ; 
an  oak,  but  with  one  green  leaf  on  it,  would  have  answered 
her  ;  my  very  visor  began  to  assume  life,  and  scold  with 
her :  She  told  me,  not  thinking  I  had  been  myself,  that  I 
was  the  prince's  jester  :  that  I  was  duller  than  a  great  thaw : 
huddling  jest  upon  jest,  with  such  impossible  conveyance 
upon  me,  that  I  stood  like  a  man  at  a  mark  with  a  whole 
army  shooting  at  me.  She  speaks  poniards,  and  every  word 
stabs :  if  her  breath  were  as  terrible  as  her  terminations, 
there  were  no  living  near  her  ;  she  would  infect  to  the  north 
star.  I  would  not  marry  her,  though  she  were  endowed 
with  all  that  Adam  had  left  him  before  he  transgressed  ;  she 
would  have  made  Hercules  have  turned  spit ;  yea,  and  have 
cleft  his  club  to  make  the  fire  too.  Come,  talk  not  of  her ; 
you  shall  find  her  the  infernal  Ate  in  good  apparel.  I  would 
to  God,  some  scholar  would  conjure  her;  for,  certainly, 
while  she  is  here,  a  man  may  live  as  quiet  in  hell,  as  in  a 
sanctuary  ;  and  people  sin  upon  purpose,  because  they  would 
go  thither :  so,  indeed,  all  disquiet,  horror,  and  perturbation 
follow  her. 

Re-enter  Claudio,  Beatrice,  Hero,  and  Leoxato. 

J).  Pedro.    Look,  here  she  comes. 

Bene.  Will  your  grace  command  me  any  service  to  the 
world's  end  ?  I  will  go  on  the  slightest  errand  now  to  the 
antipodes,  that  you  can  devise  to  send  me  on ;  I  will  fetch 
you  a  toothpicker  now  from  the  farthest  inch  of  Asia  ;  bring 
you  the  length  of  Prester  John's  foot ;  fetch  you  a  hair  off 
the  great  Cham's  beard :  do  you  any  embassage  to  the  Pig- 
mies, rather  than  hold  three  words'  conference  with  this 
harpy :  you  have  no  employment  for  me  ? 

JD.  Pedro.    None,  but  to  desire  your  good  company. 

Bene.  0  God,  sir,  here's  a  dish  I  love  not ;  I  can  not 
endure  my  lady  Tongue.  \_Exit. 

D.  Pedro.  Come,  lady,  come :  you  have  lost  the  heart 
of  seignior  Benedick. 

Beat.  Indeed,  my  lord,  he  lent  it  me  a  while ;  and  I  give 
him  use  for  it,  a  double  heart  for  his  single  one :  marry, 
once  before,  he  won  it  of  me  with  false  dice ;  therefore  your 
grace  may  Avell  say,  I  have  lost  it. 


344  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.         [Act  II. 

B  Pedro.  You  have  put  liim  down,  ladj,  you  have  put 
him  down. 

Beat.  So  I  would  not  he  should  do  me,  my  lord,  lest  1 
should  prove  the  mother  of  fools.  I  have  brought  count 
Claudio,  whom  you  sent  me  to  seek. 

B.  Pedro.  Why,  how  now,  count  ?  Wherefore  are  yon 
Bad? 

Claud.    Not  sad,  my  lord. 

B.  Pedro.    How  then  ?     Sick  ? 

Claud.    Neither,  my  lord. 

Beat.  The  count  is  neither  sad,  nor  sick,  nor  merry,  nor 
well :  but  civil,  count ;  civil  as  an  orange,  and  something 
of  that  jealous  complexion. 

B.  Pedro.  I'faith,  lady,  I  think  your  blazon  to  be  true, 
though,  I'll  be  sworn,  if  he  be  so,  his  conceit  is  false.  Here, 
Claudio,  I  have  wooed  in  thy  name,  and  fair  Hero  is  won ; 
I  have  broke  with  her  father,  and  his  good  will  obtained  : 
name  the  day  of  marriage,  and  God  give  thee  joy  ! 

Leon.  Count,  take  of  me  my  daughter,  and  with  her  my 
fortunes :  his  grace  hath  made  the  match,  and  all  grace  say 
Amen  to  it ! 

Beat.    Speak,  count,  'tis  your  cue. 

Claud.  Silence  is  the  perfectest  herald  of  joy ;  I  were 
but  little  happy,  if  I  could  say  how  much. — Lady,  as  you 
are  mine,  I  am  yours ;  I  give  away  myself  for  you,  and  dote 
upon  the  exchange. 

Beat.  Speak,  cousin,  or,  if  you  cannot,  stop  his  mouth 
with  a  kiss,  and  let  him  not  speak  neither. 

B.  Pedro.    In  faith,  lady,  you  have  a  merry  heart. 

Beat.  Yea,  my  lord :  I  thank  it,  poor  fool,  it  keeps  on 
the  windy  side  of  care:  —  my  cousin  tells  him  in  his  ear, 
that  he  is  in  her  heart. 

Claud.    And  so  she  doth,  cousin. 

Beat.  Good  lord,  for  alliance  !  —  Thus  goes  every  one  to 
the  world  but  I,  and  I  am  sun-burned ;  I  may  sit  in  the 
corner,  and  cry,  heigh  ho !  for  a  husband. 

B.  Pedro.    Lady  Beatrice,  I  will  get  you  one. 

Beat.  I  would  ratter  have  one  of  your  father's  getting. 
Hath  your  grace  ne'er  a  brother  like  you  ?  Your  father 
got  excellent  husbands,  if  a  maid  could  come  by  them. 

B.  Pedro.    Will  you  have  me,  lady  ? 

Beat.  No,  my  lord,  unless  I  might  have  another  for 
working-days ;  your  grace  is  too  costly  to  wear  every  day. 
—  But  I  beseech  your  grace,  pardon  me:  I  was  born  to 
epeak  all  mirth,  and  no  matter. 

B.  Pedro.   Your  silence  most  offends  me,  and  to  be  merry 


Acf  II.J         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHINCI.  345 

best  becomes  you ;  for,  out  of  question,  you  were  born  in  a 
merry  hour. 

Beat.  No,  sure,  my  lord,  my  mother  cried,  but  then 
there  was  a  star  danced,  and  under  that  was  I  born. — 
Cousins,  God  give  you  joy  ! 

Leon.   Niece,  will  you  look  to  those  things  I  told  you  of  ? 

Beat.    I  cry  you  mercy,  uncle.  — By  your  grace's  pardon. 

[^Exit, 

D.  Pedro.    By  my  troth,  a  pleasant-spirited  lady. 

Leon.  There's  little  of  the  melancholy  element  in  her, 
my  lord :  she  is  never  sad,  but  when  she  sleeps ;  and  not 
ever  sad  then ;  for  I  have  heard  my  daughter  say,  she  hath 
often  dreamed  of  unhappiness,  and  waked  herself  with 
laughing. 

D.  Pedro.    She  cannot  endure  to  hear  tell  of  a  husband. 

Leon.  0,  by  no  means ;  she  mocks  all  her  wooers  out  of 
suit. 

D.  Pedro.    She  were  an  excellent  wife  for  Benedick. 

Leon.  0  Lord,  my  lord,  if  they  were  but  a  week  married, 
they  would  talk  themselves  mad. 

D.  Pedro.  Count  Claudio,  when  mean  you  to  go  to 
church  ? 

Claud.  To-morrow,  my  lord.  Time  goes  on  crutches,  till 
love  have  all  his  rites. 

Leon.  Not  till  Monday,  my  dear  son,  which  is  hence  a 
just  seven-night ;  and  a  time  too  brief  too,  to  have  all  things 
answer  my  mind. 

B.  Pedro.  Come,  you  shake  the  head  at  so  long  a  breath- 
ing ;  but,  I  warrant  thee,  Claudio,  the  time  shall  not  go 
dully  by  us ;  I  will,  in  the  interim,  undertake  one  of  Her- 
cules' labors  ;  which  is,  to  bring  seignior  Benedick  and  the 
lady  Beatrice  into  a  mountain  of  affection,  the  one  with  the 
other.  I  would  fain  have  it  a  match ;  and  I  doubt  not  but 
to  fashion  it,  if  you  three  will  but  minister  such  assistance 
as  I  shall  give  you  direction. 

Leon.  J\ly  lord,  I  am  for  you,  though  it  cost  me  ten 
nights'  watching. 

Claud.    And  I,  my  lord. 

B.  Pedro.    And  you,  too,  gentle  Hero  ? 

Hero.  I  will  do  any  modest  office,  my  lord,  to  help  my 
cousin  to  a  good  husband. 

B.  Pedro.  And  Benedick  is  not  the  unhopefullest  hus- 
band that  I  know :  thus  far  can  I  praise  him ;  he  is  of  a 
noble  strain,  of  approved  valor,  and  confirmed  honesty.  I 
will  teach  you  how  to  humor  your  cousin,  that  she  shall  fall 
in  love  with  Benedick :  —  and  I,  with  your  two  helps,  will 


346  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTITINa.         [Act  II 

BO  practise  on  Benedick,  tliat,  in  despite  of  his  quick  wit 
and  his  queasy  stomach,  he  shall  fall  in  love  with  Beatrice. 
If  we  can  do  this,  Cupid  is  no  longer  an  archer ;  his  glory 
shall  be  ours,  for  we  are  the  only  love-gods.  Go  in  with  me, 
and  I  will  tell  you  my  drift.  ^Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.     AnotJier  Room  in  Leonato's  House. 
Enter  Don  John  and  Borachio. 

D.  John.  It  is  so ;  the  count  Claudio  shall  marry  the 
daughter  of  Leonato. 

Bo^'a.    Yea,  my  lord ;  but  I  can  cross  it. 

D.  John.  Any  bar,  any  cross,  any  impediment  will  be 
medicinable  to  me.  I  am  sick  in  displeasure  to  him  ;  and 
■whatsoever  comes  athwart  his  aifection,  ranges  evenly  with 
mine.     How  canst  thou  cross  this  marriage  ? 

Bora.  Not  honestly,  my  lord ;  but  so  covertly  that  no 
dishonesty  shall  appear  in  me. 

D.  John.    Show  me  briefly  how. 

Bora.  I  think,  I  told  your  lordship,  a  year  since,  how 
much  I  am  in  the  favor  of  Margaret,  the  waiting-gentlewo- 
man to  Hero. 

D.  John.    I  remember. 

Bora.  I  can,  at  any  unseasonable  instant  of  the  night, 
appoint  her  to  look  out  at  her  lady's  chamber-window. 

B.  John.    "What  life  is  in  that  to  be  the  death  of  this 


marriage 


Bora.  The  poison  of  that  lies  in  you  to  temper.  Go  you 
to  the  prince,  your  brother ;  spare  not  to  tell  him,  that  he 
hath  wronged  his  honor  in  marrying  the  renowned  Claudio 
(whose  estimation  do  you  mightily  hold  up)  to  a  contami- 
nated stale,  such  a  one  as  Hero. 

B.  John.    What  proof  shall  I  make  of  that  ? 

Bora.  Proof  enough  to  misuse  the  prince,  to  vex  Claudio, 
to  undo  Hero,  and  kill  Leonato.  Look  you  for  any  other 
issue  ? 

B.  John.    Only  to  despite  them,  I  will  endeavor  any  thing. 

Bora.  Go  then,  find  me  a  meet  hour  to  draw  don  Pedro 
and  the  count  Claudio  alone.  Tell  them,  that  you  know  that 
Hero  loves  me ;  intend  a  kind  of  zeal  both  to  the  prince  and 
Claudio,  as  —  in  love  of  your  brother's  honor,  who  hath 
made  this  match ;  and  his  friend's  reputation,  who  is  thus 
like  to  be  cozened  with  the  semblance  of  a  maid  —  that  you 
have  discovered  thus.  They  will  scarcely  believe  this  with- 
out trial.     Offer  them  instances ;  which  shall  bear  no  less 


Act  Il.J  MUCH  AIX)  ABOUT  NOTHING.  347 

likelihood,  than  to  see  me  at  her  chamber-window ;  hear  me 
call  Margaret,  Hero ;  hear  Margaret  term  me  Claudio ;  and 
bring  them  to  see  this,  the  very  night  before  the  intended 
wedding  ;  for,  in  the  mean  time,  I  will  so  fashion  the  matter, 
that  Hero  shall  be  absent ;  and  there  shall  appear  such  seem- 
ing truth  of  Hero's  disloyalty,  that  jealousy  shall  be  called 
assurance,  and  all  the  preparation  overthrown. 

D.  John.  Grow  this  to  what  adverse  issue  it  can,  I  will 
put  it  in  practice.  Be  cunning  in  the  working  this,  and  thy 
fee  is  a  thousand  ducats. 

Bora.  Be  you  constant  in  the  accusation,  and  my  cunning 
shall  not  shame  me. 

D.  John.    I  will  presently  go  learn  their  day  of  marriage. 

[^Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.     Leonato's  Garden. 

Enter  Benedick  and  a  Boy. 

Bene.   Boy, — 

Boy.    Seignior. 

Bene.  In  my  chamber-window  lies  a  book  ;  bring  it  hither 
to  me  in  the  orchard. 

Boy.    I  am  here  already,  sir. 

Bene.  I  know  that ;  —  but  I  would  bave  thee  hence,  and 
here  again.  [Exit  Boy.]  —  I  do  much  wonder,  that  one 
man,  seeing  how  much  another  man  is  a  fool  when  he  dedi- 
cates his  behaviors  to  love,  will,  after  he  hath  laughed  at 
such  shallow  follies  in  others,  become  the  argument  of  his 
own  scorn,  by  falling  in  love.  And  such  a  man  is  Claudio. 
I  have  known  when 'there  was  no  music  with  him  but  the 
drum  and  fife ;  and  now  had  he  rather  hear  the  tabor  and 
the  pipe.  I  have  knoAvn  Avhen  he  would  have  walked  ten 
mile  afoot,  to  see  a  good  armor ;  and  now  will  he  lie  ten 
nights  awake,  carving  the  fashion  of  a_new  doublet.  He 
was  wont  to  speak  plain,  and  to  the  purpose,  like  an  honest 
man  and  a  soldier ;  and  now  is  he  tui'ned  orthographer ;  his 
words  are  a  very  fantastical  banquet,  just  so  many  strange 
dishes.  May  I  be  so  converted,  and  see  with  these  eyes  ? 
I  cannot  tell ;  I  think  not.  I  will  not  be  sworn,  but  love 
may  transform  me  to  an  oyster ;  but  I'll  take  my  oath  on 
it,  till  he  have  made  an  oyster  of  me,  he  shall  never  make 
me  such  a  fool.  One  woman  is  fair ;  yet  I  am  well :  another 
is  wise ;  yet  I  am  well :  another  virtuous ;  yet  I  am  well : 
but  till  all  the  graces  be  in  one  woman,  one  woman  shall  not 
come  in  my  grace.  Rich  she  shall  be,  that's  certain  ;  wise, 
or  I'll  none ;  virtuous,  or  I'll  never  cheapen  her ;  fair,  or 


>--v-\j2. 


348  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.        [Act  II 

I'll  never  look  on  lier ;  mild,  or  come  not  near  me ;  noble,  ^— 

or  not  I  for  an  angel ;  of  good  discourse,  an  excellent  ^  '-^-t-^^-^-v^ 
musician,  and  her  liair  shall  be  of  what  color  it  please  God.  '^i}  '**t 
Ha!  the  prince  and  monsieur  Love  !  I  will  hide  me  in  the  •  >4^'-.  l/v 
arbor.  \_Withdraws.     ;  .     ,  /  <Ti 

Enter  Don  Pedro,  Leonato  and  Clatidio. 

D.  Pedro.    Come,  shall  we  hear  this  music  ? 

Claud.    Yea,  my  good  lord.     How  still  the  evening  is, 
As  hushed  on  purpose  to  grace  harmony  ! 

D.  Pedro.    See  you  where  Benedick  hath  hid  himself? 

Claud.    0,  very  well,  my  lord.     The  music  ended, 
We'll  fit  the  kid-fox  with  a  penny-worth. 

Enter  Balthazar,  ivith  music. 

D.  Pedro.  Come,  Balthazar,  we'll  hear  that  song  again. 

Balth.    0,  good  my  lord,  tax  not  so  bad  a  voice 
To  slander  music  any  more  than  once. 

J).  Pedro.  It  is  the  witness  still  of  excellency, 
To  put  a  strange  face  on  his  own  perfection :  — 
I  pray  thee,  sing,  and  let  me  woo  no  more. 

Balth.    Because  you  talk  of  wooing,  I  will  sing : 
Since  many  a  wooer  doth  commence  his  suit 
To  her  he  thinks  not  worthy ;  yet  he  wooes ; 
Yet  will  he  swear,  he  loves. 

P.  Pedro.  Nay,  pray  thee,  come: 

Or,  if  thou  wilt  hold  longer  argument, 
Do  it  in  notes. 

Balth.  Note  this  before  my  notes. 

There's  not  a  note  of  mine  that's  worth  the  noting. 

P.  Pedro.  Why  these  are  very  crotchets  that  he  speaks : 
Note,  notes,  forsooth,  and  noting !  \^Music. 

Bene.  Now,  divine  air!  now  is  his  soul  ravished!  —  Is  it 
not  strange,  that  sheep's  guts  should  hale  souls  out  of  men's 
bodies  ? — Well,  a  horn  for  my  money,  when  all's  done. 

Balthazar  sings. 
I. 

Balth.    Sigh  no  more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more; 
Men  were  deceivers  ever ; 
One  foot  in  sea,  and  one  on  shore ; 
To  one  thing  constant  never ; 
Then  sigh  not  so. 
But  let  them  go. 
And  he  you  blithe  and  bonny ; 
Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woe 
Into,  Hey  nonny,  nonny. 


Act  n.]         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  U9 

II. 

Sincf  no  more  ditties,  sing  no  more 
Of  dujyijys  so  dull  and  heavy ; 

The  fraud  of  men  was  ever  so, 
Since  summer  first  was  leavy : 
Then  sigh  not  so,  &c. 

D.  Pedro.    By  my  trotli,  a  good  song. 

Balth.    xlnd  an  ill  singer,  my  lord. 

Z).  Pedro.  Ha  !  No ;  no,  faith ;  tliou  singest  well  enough 
for  a  shift. 

Bene.  \_Aside.'\  An  he  had  been  a  dog,  that  should  have 
howled  thus,  they  would  have  hanged  him  ;  and,  I  pray  God, 
his  bad  voice  bode  no  mischief!  I  had  as  lief  have  heard 
the  night-raven,  come  what  plague  could  have  come  after  it. 

D.Pedro.  Yea,  marry.  \_To  Claudio.]  —  Dost  thou 
hear,  Balthazar  ?  I  pray  thee,  get  us  some  excellent 
music ;  for  to-morrow  night  we  would  have  it  at  the  lady 
Hero's  chamber-window. 

Balth.    The  best  I  can,  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.  Do  so  ;  farewell.  [Exeunt  Balthazar  and 
music.'\  Come  hither,  Leonato.  What  was  it  you  told  me 
of  to-day  ?  that  your  niece  Beatrice  was  in  love  with  seignior 
Benedick  ? 

Claud.  0,  ay. — Stalk  on,  stalk  on  ;  the  fowl  sits.  [Aside 
to  Pedro.]  I  did  never  think  that  lady  would  have  loved 
any  man. 

Leon.  No,  nor  I  neither ;  but  most  wonderful,  that  she 
should  so  dote  on  seignior  Benedick,  whom  she  hath  in  all 
outward  behaviors  seemed  ever  to  abhor. 

Bene.  Is't  possible?  Sits  the  wind  in  that  corner?  [Aside. 

Leon.  By  my  troth,  my  lord,  I  cannot  tell  what  to  think 
of  it ;  but  that  she  loves  him  with  an  enraged  affection, — it 
is  past  the  infinite  of  thought. 

I).  Pedro.    May  be,  she  doth  but  counterfeit. 

Claud.    Faith,  like  enough. 

Leon.  0  God  !  Counterfeit !  There  never  was  counter- 
feit of  passion  came  so  near  the  life  of  passion,  as  she  dis- 
covers it. 

I).  Pedro.  Why,  what  effects  of  passion  shows  she  ? 

Claud.  Bait  the  hook  well ;  this  fish  will  bite.        [Aside. 

Leon.  What  effects,  my  lord  ?  She  will  sit  you,  —  you 
heard  my  daughter  tell  you  how. 

Claud.    She  did,  indeed. 

B.  Pedro.  How,  hoAv,  I  pray  you  ?  You  amaze  me ;  I 
2e 


350  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHmG.         [Act  H 

would  have  thought  her  spirit  had  been  invincible  against 
all  assaults  of  affection. 

Leon.  I  would  have  sworn  it  had,  my  lord ;  especially 
against  Benedick. 

Bene.  [Aside.']  I  should  think  this  a  gull,  but  that  the 
white-bearded  fellow  speaks  it.  Knavery  cannot,  sure,  hide 
itself  in  such  reverence. 

Clmid.  He  hath  ta'en  the  infection  ;  hold  it  up.    [Aside. 

D.  Pedro.  Hath  she  made  her  affection  known  to  Bene- 
dick ? 

Leon.  No  ;  and  swears  she  never  will ;  that's  her  torment. 

Claud.  'Tis  true,  indeed ;  so  your  daughter  says.  81iall 
7,  says  she,  that  have  so  oft  encountered  Mm  with  scorn, 
write  to  him  that  I  love  him ! 

Leon.  This  says  she  now  when  she  is  beginning  to  write 
to  him ;  for  she'll  be  up  tvrenty  times  a  night,  and  there 
will  she  sit  in  her  smock,  till  she  have  writ  a  sheet  of  paper. 
—  My  daughter  tells  us  all. 

Claud.  Now  you  talk  of  a  sheet  of  paper,  I  remember  a 
pretty  jest  your  daughter  told  us  of. 

Leon.  0  ! — When  she  had  writ  it,  and  was  reading  it  over, 
she  found  Benedick  and  Beatrice  between  the  sheet !  — 

Claud.    That. 

Leon.  0  !  she  tore  the  letter  into  a  thousand  half-pence ; 
railed  at  herself,  that  she  should  be  so  immodest  to  write  to 
one  that  she  knew  would  flout  her.  I  measure  him,  says 
she,  hy  my  own  sjnrit ;  for  I  should  flout  him,  if  he  writ  to 
me;  yea,  though  L love  him,  L should. 

Claud.  Then  down  upon  her  knees  she  falls,  weeps,  sobs, 
beats  her  heart,  tears  her  hair,  prays,  curses ;  —  0  sweet 
Benedick  !     God  give  me  patience  ! 

Leon.  She  doth  indeed ;  my  daughter  says  so ;  and  the 
ecstasy  hath  so  much  overborne  her,  that  my  daughter  is 
sometime  afraid  she  will  do  a  desperate  outrage  to  herself. 
It  is  very  true. 

D.  Pedro.  It  were  good,  that  Benedick  knew  of  it  by 
some  other,  if  she  will  not  discover  it. 

Claud.  To  what  end  ?  He  would  but  make  a  sport  of  it, 
and  torment  the  poor  lady  worse. 

L>.  Pedro.  An  he  should,  it  ware  an  alms  to  hang  him. 
She's  an  excellent  sweet  lady ;  and,  out  of  all  suspicion,  she 
is  virtuous. 

Claud.    And  she  is  exceeding  Avise. 

D.  Pedro.    In  every  thing,  but  in  loving  Benedick. 

Leon.  0  my  lord,  wisdom  and  blood  combating  in  so  ten- 
der a  body,  we  have  ten  proofs  to  one,  that  blood  hath  the 


Act  II.]         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  351 

victory,  I  am  sorry  for  her,  as  I  have  just  cause,  being  her 
uncle  and  her  guardian. 

D.  Pedro.  I  would  she  had  bestowed  this  dotage  on  me : 
I  would  have  daffed  all  other  respects,  and  made  her  half 
myself.  I  pray  you,  tell  Benedick  of  it,  and  hear  what 
he  will  say. 

Leon.    Were  it  good,  think  you  ? 

Claud.  Hero  thinks  surely  she  will  die ;  for  she  says,  she 
will  die  if  he  love  her  not ;  and  she  will  die  ere  slie  makes 
her  love  known  ;  and  she  will  die  if  he  woo  her,  rather  than 
she  will  'bate  one  breath  of  her  accustomed  crossness. 

D.  Pedro.  She  doth  well.  If  she  should  make  tender 
of  her  love,  'tis  very  possible  he'll  scorn  it ;  for  the  man,  as 
you  know  all,  hath  a  contemptible  spirit. 

Claud.    He  is  a  very  proper  man. 

D.  Pedro.    He  hath,  indeed,  a  good  outward  happiness. 

Claud.    'Fore  God,  and  in  my  mind,  very  wise. 

D.  Pedro.  He  doth,  indeed,  show  some  spai-ks  that  are 
like  wit. 

Leon.    And  I  take  him  to  be  valiant. 

D.  Pedro.  As  Hector,  I  assure  you :  and  in  the  managing 
of  quarrels  you  may  say  he  is  wise ;  for  either  he  avoids 
them  with  great  discretion,  or  undertakes  them  with  a  most 
Cliristian-like  fear. 

Leon.  If  he  do  fear  God,  he  must  necessarily  keep  peace ; 
if  he  break  the  peace,  he  ought  to  enter  into  a  quarrel 
with  fear  and  trembling. 

L.  Pedro.  And  so  will  he  do ;  for  the  man  doth  fear 
God,  howsoever  it  seems  not  in  him  by  some  large  jests  he 
will  make.  Well,  I  am  sorry  for  your  niece.  Shall  we  go 
see  Benedick,  and  tell  him  of  her  love  ? 

Claud.  Never  tell  him,  my  lord ;  let  her  wear  it  out  with 
good  counsel. 

Leon.  Nay,  that's  impossible ;  she  may  wear  her  heart 
out  first. 

D.  Pedro.  Well,  we'll  hear  further  of  it  by  your  daughter ; 
let  it  cool  the  while.  I  love  Benedick  well ;  and  I  could 
wish  he  would  modestly  examine  himself,  to  see  how  much 
he  is  unworthy  to  have  so  good  a  lady. 

Leon.    My  lord,  will  you  walk?     Dinner  is  ready. 

Claud.  If  he  do  not  dote  on  her  upon  this,  I  will  never 
trust  my  expectation.  [^Aside. 

D.  Pedro.  Let  there  be  the  same  net  spread  for  her;  and 
that  must  your  daughter  and  her  gentlewoman  carry.  The 
sport  will  be,  when  they  hold  one  an  opinion  of  another's 
dotage,  and  no  such  matter;  that's  the  scene  that  I  would 


352  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.       [Act  II. 

see,  ^.rluch  "will  be  merely  a  dumb  show.     Let  us  send  her 

to  call  him  in  to  dinner.  [^Aside. 

[Exeunt  Don  Pedro,  Claudio,  and  Leonato. 

Benedick  advances  from  the  arbor. 

Bene.  This  can  be  no  trick.  The  conference  was  sadly 
borne.  —  They  have  the  truth  of  this  from  Hero.  They 
seem  to  pity  the  lady ;  it  seems  her  affections  have  their 
full  bent.  Love  me  !  Why,  it  must  be  requited.  I  hear 
how  I  am  censured.  They  say,  I  will  bear  myself  proudly, 
if  I  perceive  the  love  come  from  her ;  they  say,  too,  that 
she  will  rather  die  than  give  any  sign  of  affection. — I  did 
never  think  to  marry  ;  —  I  must  not  seem  proud.  —  Happy 
are  they  that  hear  their  detractions,  and  can  put  them  to 
mending.  They  say  the  lady  is  fair ;  —  'tis  a  truth ;  I  can 
bear  them  witness  :  and  virtuous  ; — 'tis  so ;  I  cannot  reprove 
it;  and  wise,  but  for  loving  me.  —  By  my  troth,  it  is  no 
addition  to  her  wit;  —  nor  no  great  argument  of  her  folly, 
for  I  will  be  horribly  in  love  with  her.  I  may  chance  have 
some  odd  quirks  and  remnants  of  wit  broken  on  me,  because 
I  have  railed  so  long  against  marriage ;  —  but  doth  not  the 
appetite  alter  ?  A  man  loves  the  meat  in  his  youth  that  he 
cannot  endure  in  his  age.  Shall  quips,  and  sentences,  and 
these  paper  bullets  of  the  brain,  awe  a  man  from  the  career 
of  his  humor  ?  No.  The  world  must  be  peopled.  When 
I  said,  I  would  die  a  bachelor,  I  did  not  think  I  should  live 
till  I  were  married.  —  Here  comes  Beatrice.  By  this  day, 
she's  a  fair  lady.     I  do  spy  some  marks  of  love  in  her. 

Enter  Beatrice. 

Beat.  Against  my  will  I  am  sent  to  bid  you  come  in  m 
dinner. 

Bene.    Fair  Beatrice,  I  thank  you  for  your  pains. 

Beat.  I  took  no  more  pains  for  those  thanks,  than  you 
take  pains  to  thank  me  ;  if  it  had  been  painful,  I  would  not 
have  come. 

Bene.    You  take  pleasure  then  in  the  message  ? 

Beat.  Yea,  just  so  much  as  you  may  take  upon  a  knife's 
point,  and  choke  a  daw  withal. — You  have  no  stomach, 
seignior ;  fare  you  well.  [Exit. 

Bene.  Ha  !  Against  my  will  I  am  sent  to  hid  you  come 
to  dinner  ;  —  there's  a  double  meaning  in  that.  I  took  no 
more  pains  for  those  thanks  than  you  took  pains  to  thank 
me  —  that's  as  much  as  to  say,  any  pains  that  I  take  for 
you  is  as  easy  as  thanks. — If  I  do  not  take  pity  of  her,  I 
am  a  villain  ;  if  I  do  not  love  her,  I  am  a  Jew.  I  will  go 
get  her  picture  [Exit 


Act  III.]         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  353 

ACT    III. 

SCENE  I.     Leonato's  G-arden. 
Enter  Hero,  Margaret,  and  Ursula. 

Hero.    Good  Margaret,  run  thee  into  the  parlor; 
There  shalt  thou  find  my  cousin  Beatrice, 
Proposing  with  the  prince  and  Claudio : 
Whisper  her  ear,  and  tell  her,  I  and  Ursula 
Walk  in  the  orchard,  and  our  whole  discourse 
Is  all  of  her ;  saj,  that  thou  overheard'st  us  ; 
And  bid  \\ix  steal  into  the  pleached  bower, 
Where  honey-suckles,  ripened  by  the  sun. 
Forbid  the  sun  to  enter ;  —  like  favorites, 
Made  proud  by  princes,  that  advance  their  pride 
Against  that  power  that  bred  it.     There  will  she  hide  her. 
To  listen  our  propose.     This  is  thy  oiSce; 
Bear  thee  well  in  it,  and  leave  us  alone. 

Marg.    I'll  make  her  come,  I  warrant  you,  presently. 

{Bxit 

Hero.    Now,  Ursula,  when  Beatrice  doth  come, 
As  we  do  trace  this  alley  up  and  down. 
Our  talk  must  only  be  of  Benedick. 
When  I  do  name  him,  let  it  be  thy  part 
To  praise  him  more  than  ever  man  did  merit ; 
My  talk  to  thee  must  be,  how  Benedick 
Is  sick  in  love  with  Beatrice.     Of  this  matter 
Is  little  Cupid's  crafty  arrow  made, 
That  only  wounds  by  hearsay.     Now  begin ; 

Enter  Beatrice,  behind. 

For  look  where  Beatrice,  like  a  lapwing,  runs 
Close  by  the  ground,  to  hear  our  conference. 

Urs.    The  pleasant'st  angling  is  to  see  the  fish 
Cut  with  their  golden  oars  the  silver  stream 
And  greedily  devour  the  treacherous  bait. 
So  angle  we  for  Beatrice ;  who  even  now 
Is  couched  in  the  woodbine  coverture. 
Fear  you  not  my  part  of  the  dialogue. 

Hero.    Then  go  we  near  her,  that  her  ear  lose  nothing 
Of  the  false  sweet  bait,  that  we  lay  for  it. — 

\Tli('y  advance  to  the  bower. 
No,  truly,  Ursula,  she  is  too  disdainful; 
I  know  her  spirits  are  as  coy  and  wild 
As  haggards  of  the  rock. 

Vol.  I.  — 23  2e* 


35 1  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.       [Act  III. 

Urs.  But  are  you  sure 

That  Benedick  loves  Beatrice  so  entirely  T 

Hero.    So  says  the  prince,  and  my  new-trothed  lord 

Urs.    And  did  they  bid  you  tell  her  of  it,  madam  ? 

Hero.    They  did  entreat  me  to  acquaint  her  of  it; 
But  I  persuaded  them,  if  they  loved  Benedick, 
To  wish  him  wrestle  with  affection. 
And  never  to  let  Beatrice  know  of  it. 

Urs.    Why  did  you  so  ?     Doth  not  the  gentleman 
Deserve  as  full,  as  fortunate  a  bed, 
As  ever  Beatrice  shall  couch  upon? 

Hero.    0  God  of  love  !  I  know,  he  doth  deserve 
As  much  as  may  be  yielded  to  a  man ; 
But  nature  never  framed  a  woman's  heart 
Of  prouder  stuff  than  that  of  Beatrice. 
Disdain  and  scorn  ride  sparkling  in  her  eyes, 
Misprising  what  they  look  on  ;  and  her  wit 
Values  itself  so  highly,  that  to  her 
All  matter  else  seems  weak.     She  cannot  love, 
Nor  take  no  shape  nor  project  of  affection, 
She  is  so  self-endeared. 

Urs.    Sure,  I  think  so ; 
And  therefore,  certainly,  it  were  not  good 
She  knew  his  love,  lest  she  make  sport  at  it. 

Hero.    Why,  you  speak  truth.     I  never  yet  saw  man, 
How  wise,  how  noble,  young,  how  rarely  featured, 
But  she  would  spell  him  backward.     If  fair-faced 
She'd  swear  the  gentleman  should  be  her  sister ; 
If  black,  why,  nature,   drawing  of  an  antic, 
Made  a  foul  blot ;  if  tall,  a  lance  ill-headed ; 
If  low,  an  agate  very  vilely  cut ; 
If  speaking,  why,  a  vane  blown  with  all  winds; 
If  silent,  why,  a  block  moved  with  none. 
So  turns  she  every  man  the  wrong  side  out ; 
And  never  gives  to  truth  and  virtue,  that 
Which  simpleness  and  merit  purchaseth. 

Urs.    Sure,  sure,  such  carping  is  not  commendable. 

Hero.    No,  nor  to  be  so  odd,  and  from  all  fashions, 
As  Beatrice  is,  cannot  be  commendable. 
But  who  dare  tell  her  so  ?     If  I  should  speak, 
She'd  mock  me  into  air ;  0,  she  would  laugh  me 
Out  of  myself,   press  me  to  death  with  wit. 
Therefore  let  Benedick,  like  covered  fire. 
Consume  away  in  sighs,  waste  inwardly. 
It  were  a  better  death  than  die  with  mocks ; 
Which  is  as  bad  as  die  with  tickling. 


Act  III.J       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  355 

Urs.    Yet  tell  her  of  it ;  hear  what  she  will  say. 

Hero.    No ;  rather  I  will  go  to  Benedick, 
And  counsel  him  to  fight  against  his  passion. 
And,  truly,  I'll  devise  some  honest  slanders 
To  stain  my  cousin  with ;  one  doth  not  know, 
How  much  an  ill  word  may  empoison  liking. 

Urs.    0,  do  not  do  your  cousin  such  a  wrong. 
She  cannot  be  so  much  without  true  judgment, 
(Having  so  swift  and  excellent  a  wit. 
As  she  is  prized  to  have,)  as  to  refuse 
So  rare  a  gentleman  as  seignior  Benedick. 

Hero.    He  is  the  only  man  of  Italy, 
Always  excepted  my  dear  Claudio. 

Urs.    I  pray  you,  be  not  angry  with  me,  madam, 
Speaking  my  fancy ;  seignior  Benedick, 
For  shape,  for  bearing,  argument,  and  valor, 
Goes  foremost  in  report  through  Italy. 

Hero.    Indeed,  he  hath  an  excellent  good  name. 

Urs.    His  excellence  did  earn  it,  ere  he  had  it. — 
When  are  you  married,  madam  ? 

Hero.    Why,  every  day  ;  —  to-morrow.     Come,  go  in ; 
I'll  show  thee  some  attires ;  and  have  thy  counsel, 
Which  is  the  best  to  furnish  me  to-morrow. 

Urs.    She's  limed,  I  warrant  you ;  we  have  caught  her, 
madam. 

Hero    If  it  prove  so,  then  loving  goes  by  haps ; 
Some  Cupid  kills  with  arrows,  some  with  traps. 

[Exeunt  Hero  and  Ursula. 

Beatrice  advances. 

Beat.    What  fire  is  in  mine  ears  ?     Can  this  be  true  ? 
Stand  I  condemned  for  pride  and  scorn  so  much  ? 

Contempt,  farewell !     And  maiden  pride,  adieu  ? 

No  glory  lives  behind  the  back  of  such. 
And,  Benedick,  love  on ;  I  will  requite  thee ; 

Taming  my  wild  heart  to  thy  loving  hand; 
If  thou  dost  love,  my  kindness  shall  incite  thee 

To  bind  our  loves  up  in  a  holy  band. 
For  others  say,  thou  clost  deserve ;  and  I 
Believe  it  better  than  rcportingly.  [Exit 

SCENE  II.     A  Room  in  Leonato's  House. 
Enter  Don  Pedro,  Claudio,  Benedick,  and  Leonato. 

D.  Pedro.   I  do  but  stay  till  your  marriage  be  consum- 
mate, and  then  I  go  toward  Arragon. 


356  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTIIINCt.        [Act  III. 

Claud.  I'll  bring  you  thither,  my  lord,  if  you'll  vouch- 
safe me. 

D.  Pedro.  Nay,  that  would  be  as  great  a  soil  in  the  new 
gloss  of  your  marriage,  as  to  show  a  child  his  new  coat,  and 
forbid  him  to  wear  it.  I  will  only  be  bold  with  Benedick 
for  his  company ;  for,  from  the  crown  of  his  head  to  tlie 
sole  of  his  foot,  he  is  all  mirth ;  he  hath  twice  or  thrice  cut 
Cupid's  bow-string,  and  the  little  hangman  dare  not  shoot 
at  him.  He  hath  a  heart  as  sound  as  a  bell,  and  his  tongue 
is  the  clapper ;  for  what  his  heart  thinks,  his  tongue  speaks. 

Bene.    Gallants,  I  am  not  as  I  have  been. 

Leon.    So  say  I ;  methinks,  you  are  sadder. 

Claud.    I  hope  he  be  in  love. 

D.  Pedro.  Hang  him,  truant ;  there's  no  true  drop  of 
blood  in  him,  to  be  truly  touched  with  love.  If  he  be  sad, 
he  wants  money. 

Bene.    I  have  the  toothache. 

B.  Pedro.    Draw  it. 

Bene.    Hang  it ! 

Claud.    You  must  hang  it  first,  and  draw  it  afterwards. 

B.  Pedro.    What,  sigh  for  the  toothache  ? 

Leon.    Where  is  but  a  humor,  or  a  worm  ? 

Bene.  Well,  every  one  can  master  a  grief,  but  he  that 
has  it. 

Claud.    Yet  say  I,  he  is  in  love. 

B.  Pedro.  There  is  no  appearance  of  fancy  in  him,  unless 
it  be  a  fancy  that  he  hath  to  strange  disguises ;  as,  to  be  a 
Dutchman  to-day ;  a  Frenchman  to-morrow ;  or  in  the  shape 
of  two  countries  at  once ;  as,  a  German  from  the  waist  down- 
ward, all  slops  ;  and  a  Spaniard  from  the  hip  upward,  no 
doublet.  Unless  he  have  a  fancy  to  this  foolery,  as  it  ap- 
pears he  hath,  he  is  no  fool  for  fancy,  as  you  would  have  it 
appear  he  is. 

Claud.  If  he  be  not  in  love  with  some  woman,  there  is 
no  believing  old  signs.  He  brushes  his  hat  o'  mornings ; 
what  should  that  bode  ? 

B.  Pedro.    Hath  any  man  seen  him  at  the  barber's  ? 

Claud.  No,  but  the  barber's  man  hath  been  seen  with 
him ;  and  the  old  ornament  of  his  cheek  hath  already  stuffed 
tennis-balls. 

Leon.  Indeed,  he  looks  younger  than  he  did,  by  the  loss 
of  a  beard. 

B.  Pedro.  Nay,  he  rubs  himself  with  civet ;  can  you 
Hmell  him  out  by  that  ? 

Claud.  That's  as  much  as  to  say,  the  sweet  youth's  in  love. 

D.  Pedro.    The  greatest  note  of  it  is  his  melancholy. 


Act  III.]       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  357 

Olaud.    And  when  was  he  wont  to  wash  his  face  ? 

D.  Pedro.  Yea,  or  to  paint  himself?  for  the  which,  I  hear 
what  they  say  of  him. 

Claud.  Nay,  but  his  jesting  spirit ;  which  is  now  crept 
into  a  lute-string,  and  now  governed  by  stops. 

D.  Pedro.  Indeed,  that  tells  a  heavy  tale  for  him.  Con- 
clude, conclude,  he  is  in  love. 

Claud.    Nay,  but  I  know  who  loves  him. 

D.  Pedro.  That  would  I  know  too ;  I  warrant,  one  that 
knows  him  not. 

Claud.  Yes,  and  his  ill  conditions ;  and,  in  despite  of  all, 
dies  for  him. 

D.  Pedro.    She  shall  be  buried  with  her  face  upwards. 

Bene.  Yet  is  this  no  charm  for  the  toothache.  —  Old 
seignior,  walk  aside*  with  me.  I  have  studied  eight  or  nine 
wise  words  to  speak  to  you,  which  these  hobby-horses  must 
not  hear.  \_Exeunt  Benedick  ayid  Leonato. 

D.  Pedro.    For  my  life,  to  break  with  him  about  Beatrice. 

Claud.  'Tis  even  so.  Hero  and  Margaret  have  by  this 
played  their  parts  with  Beatrice  ;  and  then  the  two  bears 
will  not  bite  one  another  when  they  meet. 

Enter  Don  John. 

D.  John.    My  lord  and  brother,  God  save  you. 

D.  Pedro.    Good  den,  brother. 

D.  John.    If  your  leisure  served,  I  would  speak  with  you. 

J).  Pedro.    In  private? 

D.  John.  If  it  please  you.  Yet  count  Claudio  may  hear; 
for  what  I  would  speak  of  concerns  him. 

D.  Pedro.    What's  the  matter? 

D.  John.    Means  your  lordship  to  be  married  to-morrow  ? 

[To  Claudio. 

D.  Pedro.    You  know  he  does. 

D.  John.    I  know  not  that,  when  he  knows  what  I  know. 

Claud.  If  there  be  any  impediment,  I  pray  you,  dis- 
oover  it. 

D.  John.  You  may  think  I  love  you  not ;  let  that  appear 
hereafter,  and  aim  better  at  me  by  that  I  now  will  manifest. 
For  my  brother,  I  think  he  holds  you  well ;  and  in  dearncss 
of  heart  hath  holp  to  effect  your  ensuing  marriage  ;  surely, 
Buit  ill  spent,  and  labor  ill  bestowed  ! 

D.  Pedro.    Why,  what's  the  matter? 

D.  John.  I  came  hither  to  tell  you;  and,  circumstances 
shortened,  (for  she  hath  been  too  long  a  talking  of,)  the  lady 
is  disloyal. 

Cnaud.    Who?     Ileio? 


358  MUCH  ADO  MiOUT  NOTHING.       [Act  111. 

D.  John.  Even  slu, ;  Leonato's  Hero,  your  Hero,  every 
man's  Hero. 

aaud.    Disloyal? 

D.  John.  The  -wortl  is  too  good  to  paint  out  her  wicked- 
ness. I  could  say,  she  were  worse ;  think  you  of  a  worse 
title,  and  I  will  fit  her  to  it.  Wonder  not  till  further  war- 
rant. Go  but  with  me  to-night,  you  shall  see  her  chamber- 
window  entered ;  even  the  night  before  her  wedding-day.  If 
you  love  her  then,  to-morrow  wed  her :  but  it  would  better 
fit  your  honour  to  change  your  mind. 

Claud.    May  this  be  so  ? 

D.  Pedro.    I  will  not  think  it. 

D.  John.  If  you  dare  not  trust  that  you  see,  confess  not 
that  you  know.  If  you  will  follow  me,  I  will  show  you 
enough ;  and  when  you  have  seen  moi'e,  and  heard  more, 
proceed  accordingly. 

Claud.  If  I  see  any  thing  to-night  why  I  should  not 
marry  her  to-morrow,  in  the  congregation,  where  I  should 
wed,  there  will  I  shame  her. 

D.  Pedro.  And  as  I  wooed  for  thee  to  obtain  her,  I  will 
join  with  thee  to  disgrace  her. 

D.  John.  I  will  disparage  her  no  further,  till  you  are  my 
witnesses.  Bear  it  coldly  but  till  midnight,  and  let  the  issue 
show  itself. 

D.  Pedro.    0  day  untowardly  turned ! 

Claud.    0  mischief  strangely  thwarting  ! 

D.  John.    0  plague  right  well  prevented ! 
So  will  you  say,  when  you  have  seen  the  sequel. 

[^Exeunt 

SCENE  III.     A  Street. 
Enter  Dogberry  and  Verges,  with  the  Watch. 

Dogb.    Are  you  good  men  and  true  ? 

Verg.  Yea,  or  else  it  were  pity  but  they  should  suffer 
salvation,  body  and  soul. 

Dogh.  Nay,  that  were  a  punishment  too  good  for  them, 
if  they  should  have  any  allegiance  in  them,  being  chosen 
for  the  prince's  watch. 

Verg.    Well,  give  them  their  charge,  neighbor  Dogberry. 

Dogh.  First,  who  think  you  the  most  desartless  man  to 
be  constable  ? 

1  Watch.  Hugh  Oatcake,  sir,  or  George  Seacoal ;  for 
they  can  write  and  read. 

Dogb.    Come  hither,  neighbor  Seacoal.    God  hath  blessed 


Act  III.]       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHINa.  359 

you  with  a  good  name.  To  be  a  well-favored  man  is  the  gift 
of  fortune ;  but  to  write  and  read  comes  by  natui-e. 

2  Watch.    Both  which,  master  constable, 

Dogh.  You  have ;  I  knew  it  would  be  your  answer.  Well, 
for  your  favor,  sir,  why,  give  God  thanks,  and  make  no 
boast  of  it ;  and  for  your  writing  and  reading,  let  that  appear 
when  there  is  no  need  of  such  vanity.  You  are  thought  here 
to  be  the  most  senseless  and  fit  man  for  the  constable  of  the 
watch  ;  therefore  bear  you  the  lantern.  This  is  your  charge. 
You  shall  comprehend  all  vagrora  men ;  you  are  to  bid  any 
man  stand,  in  the  prince's  name. 

2  Watch.    How  if  he  will  not  stand  ? 

Dogh.  Why,  then,  take  no  note  of  him,  but  let  him  go ; 
and  presently  call  the  rest  of  the  watch  together,  and  thank 
God  you  are  rid  of  a  knave. 

Verg,  If  he  will  not  stand  when  he  is  bidden,  he  is  none 
of  the  prince's  subjects. 

Dogh.  True,  and  they  are  to  meddle  with  none  but  the 
prince's  subjects.  — You  shall  also  make  no  noise  in  the 
streets ;  for,  for  the  watch  to  babble  and  talk,  is  most  tole- 
rable and  not  to  be  endured. 

2  Watch.  We  will  rather  sleep  than  talk ;  we  know  what 
belongs  to  a  watch. 

Dogh.  Why,  you  speak  like  an  ancient  and  most  quiet 
watchman ;  for  I  cannot  see  how  sleeping  should  offend ; 
only,  have  a  care  that  your  bills  be  not  stolen.  — Well,  you 
are  to  call  at  all  the  ale-houses,  and  bid  those  that  are  drunk 
get  them  to  bed. 

2  Watch.    How  if  they  will  not  ? 

Dogh.  Why,  then,  let  them  alone  till  they  are  sober ;  if 
they  make  you  not  then  the  better  answer,  you  may  say, 
they  are  not  the  men  you  took  them  for. 

2  Watch.    Well,  sir. 

Dogh.  If  you  meet  a  thief,  you  may  suspect  him,  by  vir- 
tue of  your  office,  to  be  no  true  man  ;  and,  for  such  kind  of 
men,  the  less  you  meddle  or  make  with  them,  why,  the  more 
is  for  your  honesty. 

2  WatcK.  If  we  know  him  to  be  a  thief,  shall  we  not  lay 
hands  on  him  ? 

Dogh.  Truly,  by  your  office,  you  may  ;  but  I  think,  they 
that  touch  pitcli  will  bo  defiled.  The  most  peaceable  way 
for  you,  if  you  do  take  a  thief,  is,  to  let  him  show  himself 
what  he  is,  and  steal  out  of  your  company. 

Verg.  You  have  been  always  called  a  merciful  man, 
partner. 

Dogh.  Truly,  I  W(Mild  not  hang  a  dog  by  my  will ;  much 
more  a  man,  who  hath  any  honesty  in  him. 


?60  MUCH  APO  ABOUT  NOTHING         [Act  111 

Vei'g.  If  you  hear  a  cliild  cry  in  the  night,  you  must  call 
to  the  nurse,  and  bid  her  still  it. 

2  Watch.   IIow  if  the  nurse  be  asleep,  and  will  not  hear  us  ? 

Dik/b.  Why,  then,  depart  in  peace,  and  let  the  child  wake 
her  with  crying ;  for  the  ewe  that  will  not  hear  her  lamb 
when  it  baas,  will  never  answer  a  calf  when  he  bleats. 

P7'?7/.    'Tis  very  true. 

Dogh.  This  is  the  end  of  the  charge.  You,  constable,  are 
to  present  the  prince's  own  person ;  if  you  meet  the  prince 
in  the  night,  you  may  stay  him. 

Verg.    Nay,  by'r  lady,  that,  I  think,  he  cannot. 

Bogb.  Five  shillings  to  one  on't,  Avith  any  man  that  knows 
the  statutes,  he  may  stay  him.  Marry,  not  without  the 
prince  be  willing ;  for,  indeed,  the  watch  ought  to  offend  no 
man ;  and  it  is  an  offence  to  stay  a  man  against  his  will. 

Verg.    By'r  lady,  I  think  it  be  so. 

Dogb.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  Well,  masters,  good  night.  An 
there  be  any  matter  of  weight  chances,  call  up  me  ;  keep 
your  fellows'  counsels  and  your  own,  and  good  night. — 
Come,  neighbor. 

2  Watch.  Well,  masters,  we  hear  our  charge.  Let  us  go 
sit  here  upon  the  church-bench  till  two,  and  then  all  to  bed. 

Dogb.  One  word  more,  honest  neighbors.  I  pray  you, 
watch  about  seignior  Leonato's  door ;  for  the  wedding  being 
there  to-morrow,  there  is  a  great  coil  to-night.  Adieu ;  be 
vigilant,  I  beseech  you.     \_Exeunt  Dogberry  and  Verges. 

Enter  Borachio  and  Conrade. 

Bora.    What !    Conrade, — 

Watch.    Peace;  stir  not.  \_Aside. 

Bora.    Conrade,  I  say  ! 

Con.    Here,  man,  I  am  at  thy  elbow. 

Bora.  Mass,  and  my  elbow  itched ;  I  thought  there 
would  a  scab  follow. 

Con.  I  will  OAve  thee  an  answer  for  that ;  and  now  for- 
ward with  thy  tale. 

Bora  Stand  thee  close  then  under  this  pent-house,  for 
it  drizzles  rain  ;  and  I  will,  like  a  true  drunkard,  utter  all 
to  thee. 

Watch.  [Aside.~\  Some  treason,  masters  ;  yet  stand  close. 

Bora.  Therefore  know,  I  have  earned  of  don  John  a 
thousand  ducats. 

Con.  Is  it  possible  that  any  villany  should  be  so  dear  ? 

Bora.  Thou  shouldst  rather  ask,  if  it  were  possible  any 
villany  should  be  so  rich  ;  for  when  rich  villains  have  need 
of  poor  ones,  poor  ones  may  make  what  price  they  wilL 


Act  III.J        MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  861 

Con.    1  wonder  at  it. 

Bora.  That  shows  thou  art  unconfirmed.  Thou  knowest, 
that  the  fashion  of  a  doublet,  or  a  hat,  or  a  cloak,  is  nothing 
to  a  man. 

Con.    Yes,  it  is  apparel. 

Bora.    I  mean,  the  fashion. 

Con.    Yes,  the  fashion  is  the  fashion. 

Bora.  Tush  !  I  may  as  well  say,  the  fool's  the  fool.  But 
seest  thou  not  what  a  deformed  thief  this  fashion  is  ? 

Watch.  I  know  that  Deformed  ;  he  has  been  a  vile  thief 
this  seven  year ;  he  goes  up  and  down  like  a  gentleman. 
I  remember  his  name. 

Bora.    Didst  thou  not  hear  somebody  ? 

Con.    No ;  'twas  the  vane  on  the  house. 

Bora.  Seest  thou  not,  I  say,  what  a  deformed  thief  this 
fashion  is  't  How  giddily  he  turns  about  all  the  hot  bloods, 
between  fourteen  and  five-and-thirty  !  sometime,  fashioning 
them  like  Pharaoh's  soldiers  in  the  reechy  painting ;  some- 
time, like  god  Bel's  priests  in  the  old  church  window ;  some- 
time like  the  shaven  Hercules  in  the  smirched  worm-eaten 
tapestry,  where  his  cod-piece  seems  as  massy  as  his  club  ? 

Con.  All  this  I  see ;  and  see,  that  the  fashion  wears  out 
more  apparel  than  the  man.  But  art  not  thou  thyself  giddy 
with  the  fashion  too,  that  thou  hast  shifted  out  of  thy  tale 
into  telling  me  of  the  fashion  ? 

Bora.  Not  so  neither.  But  know,  that  I  have  to-night 
wooed  Margaret,  the  lady  Hero's  gentlewoman,  by  the  name 
of  Hero  ;  she  leans  me  out  at  her  mistress's  chamber-window, 
bids  me  a  thousand  times  good  night, — I  tell  this  tale  vilely. 
I  should  first  tell  thee  how  the  prince,  Claudio,  and  my 
mastei',  planted,  and  placed,  and  possessed  by  my  master 
don  John,  saw  afar  off,  in  the  orchard,  this  amiable  encounter. 

Con.    And  thought  they  Margaret  was  Hero  ? 

Bora.  Two  of  them  did,  the  prince  and  Claudio ;  but  the 
devil,  my  master,  knew  she  was  Margai-et ;  and  partly  by 
his  oaths,  which  first  possessed  them,  partly  by  the  dark 
night,  which  did  deceive  them,  but  chiefly  by  my  villany, 
which  did  confirm  any  slander  that  don  Jolin  had  made, 
away  went  Claudio  enraged ;  swore  he  would  meet  her,  as 
he  was  appointed,  next  morning  at  the  temple,  and  there, 
before  the  whole  congregation,  shame  her  with  what  he  saw 
over-night,  and  send  her  home  again  without  a  husband. 

1  Watch.    We  charge  you  in  the  prince  s  name,  stand. 

2  Watch.  Call  up  the  right  master  constable.  We  have 
here  recovered  the  most  dangerous  piece  of  lechery  that 
ever  was  known  in  the  commonwealth. 

2f 


•dCyl  MITCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.        [Act  III. 

1  Watch.  And  one  Deformed  is  one  of  them ;  1  know 
him  ;  he  wears  a  lock. 

Con.    Masters,  masters, — 

2  Watch.  You'll  be  made  bring  Deformed  forth,  I  war- 
rant you. 

Con.    Masters, — 

1  Watch.  Never  speak ;  we  charge  you,  let  us  obey  you, 
to  go  with  us. 

Bora.  We  are  like  to  prove  a  goodly  commodity,  being 
taken  up  of  these  men's  bills. 

Con.  A  commodity  in  question,  I  warrant  you.  Come, 
we'll  obey  you.  \_Uxeunt. 


SCENE  IV.     A  Boom  in  Leonato's  House. 
Enter  Hero,  Margaret,  a7id  Ursula. 

Hero.  Good  Ursula,  wake  my  cousin  Beatrice,  and  desire 
her  to  rise. 

Urs.    I  will,  lady. 

Hero.    And  bid  her  come  hither. 

Urs.   Well.  \_Exit  Ursula. 

Marg.    Troth,  I  think  your  other  rabato  were  better. 

Hero.    No,  pray  thee,  good  Meg,  I'll  wear  this. 

Marg.  By  my  troth,  it's  not  so  good ;  and  I  warrant, 
your  cousin  will  say  so. 

Hero.  My  cousin's  a  fool,  and  thou  art  another ;  I'll  wear 
none  but  this. 

Marg.  I  like  the  new  tire  within  excellently,  if  the  hair 
were  a  thought  browner ;  and  your  gown's  a  most  rare 
fashion,  i'faith.  I  saw  the  duchess  of  Milan's  gown,  that 
they  praise  so. 

Hero.    0,  that  exceeds,  they  say. 

Marg.  By  my  troth,  it's  but  a  night-gown  in  respect  of 
yours  —  cloth  of  gold,  and  cuts,  and  laced  with  silver;  set 
with  pearls,  down-sleeves,  side-sleeves,  and  skirts  round, 
underborne  with  a  bluish  tinsel ;  but  for  a  fine,  quaint, 
graceful,  and  excellent  fashion,  yours  is  worth  ten  on't. 

Hero.  God  give  me  joy  to  wear  it,  for  my  heart  is  ex- 
ceeding heavy ! 

Marg.    'Twill  be  heavier  soon  by  the  weight  of  a  man. 

Hero.    Fie  upon  thee  !     Art  not  ashamed  ? 

Marg.  Of  what,  lady  ?  Of  speaking  honorably  ?  Is  not 
marriage  honorable  in  a  beggar  ?  Is  not  your  lord  honor- 
able without  marriage  ?  I  think  you  would  have  me  say, 
saving  your  reverance,  —  a  husband.     An  bad  thinking  dc 


Act  III.J        MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  363 

not  wrest  true  speaking,  I'll  offend  nobody.  Is  there  any 
harm  in  —  the  heavier  for  a  husband?  None,  I  think,  an 
it  be  the  right  husband,  and  the  right  wife ;  otherwise  'tis 
light,  and  not  heavy.  Ask  my  lady  Beatrice  else ;  here  she 
comes. 

Enter  Beatrice. 

Sero.    Good  morrow,  coz. 

Beat.    Good  morrow,  sweet  Hero. 

Hero.    Why,  how  now  !  do  you  speak  in  the  sick  tune  ? 

Beat.    I  am  out  of  all  other  tune,  methinks, 

Marg.  Clap  us  into  —  Light  o'  love ;  that  goes  without 
a  burden ;  do  you  sing  it,  and  I'll  dance  it. 

Beat.  Yea,  Light  o'  love,  with  your  heels !  —  Then  if 
your  husband  have  stables  enough,  you'll  see  he  shall  lack 
no  barns. 

Marg.  0  illegitimate  construction  !  I  scorn  that  with  my 
heels. 

Beat.  'Tis  almost  five  o'clock,  cousin :  'tis  time  you  were 
ready.     By  my  troth,  I  am  exceeding  ill.  —  Hey  ho  ! 

Marg.    For  a  hawk,  a  horse,  or  a  husband  ? 

Beat.    For  the  letter  that  begins  them  all,  H. 

Marg.  Well,  an  you  be  not  turned  Turk,  there's  no  more 
sailing  by  the  star. 

Beat.    What  means  the  fool,  trow  ? 

Marg.  Nothing  I ;  but  God  send  every  one  their  heart's 
desire ! 

Hero.  These  gloves  the  count  sent  me :  they  are  an  ex 
cellent  perfume. 

Beat.    I  am  stuffed,  cousin  ;  I  cannot  smell. 

Marg.  A  maid,  and  stuffed !  There's  goodly  catching 
of  cold. 

Beat.  0,  God  help  me  !  God  help  me  !  How  long  have 
you  professed  apprehension? 

Marg.  Ever  since  you  left  it.  Doth  not  my  wit  become 
me  rarely? 

Beat.  It  is  not  seen  enough ;  you  should  wear  it  in  your 
cap.  —  By  my  troth,  I  am  sick. 

Marg.  Get  you  some  of  this  distilled  Cardans  Bcnedic- 
tus,  and  lay  it  to  your  heart ;  it  is  the  only  thing  for  a 
qualm. 

Hero.    There  thou  prick'st  her  with  a  thistle  ? 

Beat.  Benedictus  !  Why  Benedictus  ?  You  have  some 
moral  in  this  Benedictus. 

Marg.  Moral  ?  no,  by  my  troth,  I  have  no  moral  mean- 
ing;   I    moant,  plain    holy-thistle.     You   may  think,   per- 


364  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.       [Act  III 

chance,  tliat  I  think  you  arc  in  h)vc.  Nay,  by'r  lady,  I  am 
not  such  a  fool  to  think  what  I  list ;  nor  I  list  not  to  think 
what  I  can ;  nor,  indeed,  I  cannot  think,  if  I  would  think 
my  heart  out  of  thinking,  that  you  are  in  love,  or  that  you 
will  be  in  love,  or  that  you  can  be  in  love.  Yet  Benedick 
was  such  another,  and  now  is  he  become  a  man.  He  swore 
he  would  never  marry  ;  and  yet  now,  in  despite  of  his  heart, 
he  eats  his  meat  without  grudging  :  and  how  you  may  be 
converted,  I  know  not ;  but  methinks  you  look  with  your 
eyes  as  other  women  do. 

Beat.    What  pace  is  this  that  thy  tongue  keeps  ? 

Marg.    Not  a  false  gallop. 

Re-enter  Ursula. 

Urs.  Madam,  withdraw :  the  prince,  the  count,  seignior 
Benedick,  don  John,  and  all  the  gallants  of  the  town,  are 
come  to  fetch  you  to  church. 

Hero.  Help  to  dress  me,  good  coz,  good  Meg,  good  Ursula. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.     Another  Room  in  Leonato's  House. 
Enter  Leonato,  with  Dogberry  and  Verges. 

Leon.    What  would  you  with  me,  honest  neighbor? 

Dogb.  Marry,  sir,  I  would  have  some  confidence  with  you, 
that  decerns  you  nearly. 

Leon.  Brief,  I  pray  you ;  for  you  see,  'tis  a  busy  time 
with  me. 

Logh.    INIarry,  this  it  is,  sir. 

Verg.    Yes,  in  truth  it  is,  sir. 

Leon.    What  is  it,  my  good  friends  ? 

Dogb.  Goodman  Verges,  sir,  speaks  a  little  off  the  matter 
—  an  old  man,  sir,  and  his  wits  are  not  so  blunt  as,  God 
help,  I  would  desire  they  were ;  but,  in  faith,  honest  as  the 
skin  between  his  brows. 

Verg.  Yes,  I  thank  God,  I  am  as  honest  as  any  man 
living,  that  is  an  old  man  and  no  honester  than  I. 

Dogb.  Comparisons  are  odorous ;  palabras,  neighbor 
Verges. 

Leon.    Neighbors,  you  are  tedious. 

Logb.  It  pleases  your  worship  to  say  so,  but  we  are  the 
poor  duke's  officers  ;  but,  truly,  for  mine  own  part,  if  I  were 
as  tedious  as  a  king,  I  could  find  in  my  heart  to  bestow  it 
all  of  your  worship. 

Leon.    All  thy  tediousness  on  me !  ha ! 


Act  in.]       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  365 

Dogh.  Yea,  and  'twere  a  thousand  times  more  than  'tis ; 
for  I  hear  as  good  exclamation  on  your  worship,  as  of  any 
man  in  the  city ;  and  though  I  be  but  a  poor  man,  I  am 
glad  to  hear  it. 

Vei'g.    And  so  am  I 

Leon.    I  would  fain  know  what  you  have  to  say. 

Verg.  Marry,  sir,  our  watch  to-night,  excepting  your  wor- 
ship's presence,  have  ta'en  a  couple  of  as  arrant  knaves  as 
any  in  Messina. 

Dogh.  A  good  old  man,  sir  ;  he  will  be  talking ;  as  they 
say.  When  the  age  is  in,  the  wit  is  out ;  God  help  us  !  It 
is  a  world  to  see  ! — Well  said,  i'faith,  neighbor  Verges:  — 
well,  God's  a  good  man ;  an  two  men  ride  of  a  horse,  one 
must  ride  behind. — An  honest  soul,  i'faith,  sir ;  by  my  troth, 
he  is,  as  ever  broke  bread ;  but  God  is  to  be  worshipped 
All  men  are  not  alike ;  alas !  good  neighbor ! 

Leon.    Indeed,  neighbor,  he  comes  too  short  of  you. 

Dogh.    Gifts,  that  God  gives. 

Leon.    I  must  leave  you. 

Dogh.  One  word,  sir.  Our  watch,  sir,  have,  indeed,  com- 
prehended two  aspicious  persons,  and  we  would  have  them 
this  morning  examined  before  your  worship. 

Leon.  Take  their  examination  yourself,  and  bring  it  me ; 
I  am  now  in  great  haste,  as  it  may  appear  unto  you. 

Dogh.    It  shall  be  suffigance. 

Leon.    Drink  some  wine  ere  you  go  ;  fare  you  well. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  lord,  they  stay  for  you  to  give  your  daughter 
to  her  husband. 

Leon.    1  will  wait  upon  them ;  I  am  ready. 

[^Lxeunt  Leonato  and  Messenger. 

Dogh.  Go,  good  partner,  go,  get  you  to  Francis  Seacoal, 
bid  him  bring  his  pen  and  inkhorn  to  the  gaol ;  we  are  now 
to  examination  these  men. 

Verg.   And  we  must  do  it  wisely. 

Dogh.  We  will  spare  for  no  wit,  I  warrant  you ;  here'a 
that  [touching  his  forehead]  shall  drive  some  of  them  to  a 
non  com.  Only  get  the  learned  writer  to  set  down  our  ex- 
communication, and  m^jet  me  at  the  gaol.  \_Lxeunt. 

2r* 


366  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.        [Act  IV 

ACT    IV. 

SCENE  I.     The  Inside  of  a  Church. 

Enter  Don  Pedro,  Don  John,  Leonato,  Friar,  Clavdio, 
Benedick,  Hero,  and  Beatrice,  ^c. 

Leon.  Come,  friar  Francis,  be  brief;  only  to  the  plain 
form  of  marriage,  and  you  shall  recount  their  particular 
duties  afterwards. 

Friar.    You  come  hither,  mj  lord,  to  marry  this  lady? 

Claud.    No. 

Leon.  To  be  married  to  her,  friar ;  you  come  to  marry 
her. 

Friar.  Lady,  you  come  hither  to  be  married  to  this  count. 

Hero.    I  do. 

Friar.  If  either  of  you  know  any  inward  impediment 
why  you  should  not  be  conjoined,  I  charge  you,  on  your 
souls,  to  utter  it. 

Claud.    Know  you  any.  Hero  ? 

Hero.    None,  my  lord. 

Friar.    Know  you  any,  count  ? 

Leon.    I  dare  make  his  answer ;   none. 

Claud.  0,  what  men  dare  do !  What  men  may  do ! 
What  men  daily  do,  not  knowing  what  they  do  ! 

Bene.  How  now  !  Interjections  ?  Why,  then  some  be 
of  laughing,  as,  ha !  ha !  he  ! 

Claud.    Stand  thee  by,  friar.  —  Father,  by  your  leave! 
Will  you  with  free  and  unconstrained  soul 
Give  me  this  maid,  your  daughter? 

Leon.    As  freely,  son,  as  God  did  give  her  me. 

Claud.    And  what  have  I  to  give  you  back,  whose  worth 
May  counterpoise  this  rich  and  precious  gift  ? 

jD.  Pedro.    Nothing,  unless  you  render  her  again. 

Claud.  Sweet  prince,  you  learn  me  noble  thankfulness  — 
There,  Leonato,  take  her  back  again. 
Give  not  this  rotten  orange  to  your  friend : 
She's  but  the  sign  and  semblance  of  her  honor. 
Behold,  how  like  a  maid  she  blushes  here. 
0,  what  authority  and  show  of  truth 
Can  cunning  sin  cover  itself  withal ! 
Comes  not  that  blood,  as  modest  evidence, 
To  witness  simple  virtue?     Would  you  not  swear, 
All  you  that  see  her,  that  she  were  a  maid, 
By  these  exterior  shows?  —  But  she  is  none. 


Act  1Y.]        MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  867 

She  knows  the  heat  of  a  luxurious  bed ; 
Her  bhish  is  guiltiness,  not  modesty. 

Leon.    What  do  you  mean,  my  lord? 

Claud.  Not  to  be  married, 

Not  knit  my  soul  to  an  approved  wanton. 

Leon.    Dear  my  lord,  if  you,  in  your  own  proof 
Have  vanquished  the  resistance  of  her  youth. 
And  made  defeat  of  her  virginity, 

Claud.  I  know  what  you  would  say.    If  I  have  known  her, 
You'll  say  she  did  embrace  me  as  a  husband. 
And  so  extenuate  the  'forehand  sin. 
No,  Leonato, 

I  never  tempted  her  w^ith  word  too  large ; 
But,  as  a  brother  to  his  sister,  showed 
Bashful  sincerity  and  comely  love. 

Hero.    And  seemed  I  ever  otherwise  to  you? 

Claud.    Out  on  thy  seeming  !  I  will  write  against  it. 
You  seem  to  me  as  Dian  in  her  orb ; 
As  chaste  as  is  the  bud  ere  it  be  blowai ; 
But  you  are  more  intemperate  in  your  blood 
Than  Venus,  or  those  pampered  animals 
That  rage  in  savage   sensuality. 

Hero.    Is  my  lord  well,  that  he  doth  speak  so  wide? 

Leon.    Sweet  prince,  why  speak  not  you  ? 

D.  Pedro.  What  should  I  speak  ? 

I  stand  dishonored,  that  have  gone  about 
To  link  my  dear  friend  to  a  common  stale. 

Leon.    Are  these  things  spoken?     Or  do  I  but  dream? 

D.  Jolin.    Sir,  they  are  spoken,  and  these  things  are  true. 

Bene.    This  looks  not  like  a  nuptial. 

Hero.  True,  0  God! 

Claud.    Leonato,  stand  I  here  ? 
Is  this  the  prince  ?     Is  this  the  prince's  brother  ? 
Is  this  f.ce  Hero's?     Are  our  eyes  our  own? 

Leon.    All  this  is  so ;   but  what  of  this,  my  lord  ? 

Claud.    Let  me  but  move  one  question  to  your  daughter; 
And  by  that  fatherly  and  kindly  poAver 
That  you  have  in  her,  bid  her  answer  truly. 

Leon.    I  charge  thee  do  so,  as  thou  art  my  child: 

Hero.    0  God,  defend  me !     How  am  I  beset !  — 
What  kind  of  catechizing  call  you  this  ? 

Claud.    To  make  you  answer  truly  to  your  name. 

Hero     Is  it  not  Hero  ?     Who  can  blot  that  name 
With  any  just  reproach  ? 

Claud.  Marry,  that  can  Hero ; 

Hero  itself  can  blot  out  Hero's  virtue. 


368  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.        [Act  IV 

What  man  was  he  talkcl  with  you  yesternight 
Out  at  your  AvindoAv,  betwixt  twelve  and  one  ? 
Now,  if  you  are  a  maid,  ansAver  to  this. 

Hero.    I  talked  with  no  man  at  that  hour,  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.    Why  then  are  you  no  maiden.  —  Leonato, 
I  am  sorry  you  must  hear.     Upon  my  honor, 
Myself,  my  brother,  and  this  grieved  count, 
Did  see  her,  hear  her,  at  that  hour  last  night, 
Talk  with  a  ruffian  at  her  chamber-window ; 
Who  hath,  indeed,  most  like  a  liberal  villain, 
Confessed  the  vile  encounters  they  have  had 
A  thousand  times  in  secret. 

Z>.  John.  Fie,  fie  !     They  are 

Not  to  be  named,  my  lord,  not  to  be  spoke  of; 
There  is  not  chastity  enough  in  language, 
Without  offence  to  utter  them.     Thus,  pretty  lady, 
I  am  sorry  for  thy  much  misgovernment. 

Cland.    0  Hero  !  what  a  Hero  hadst  thou  been, 
If  half  thy  outward  graces  had  been  placed 
About  thy  thoughts,  and  counsels  of  thy  heart! 
But  fare  thee  well,  most  foul,  most  fair !  farewell, 
Thou  pure  impiety,  and  impious  purity  ! 
For  thee  I'll  lock  up  all  the  gates  of  love, 
And  on  my  eyelids  shall  Qonjecture  hang, 
To  turn  all  beauty  into  thoughts  of  harm ; 
And  never  shall  it  more  be  gracious. 

Leon.    Hath  no  man's  dagger  here  a  point  for  me? 

[Hero  swoons. 

Beat.    Why,    how   now,    cousin  ?     Wherefore    sink    you 
down  ? 

D.  John.    Come,  let  us  go :  these  things,  come  thus  to 
light, 
Smother  her  spirits  up. 

[Uxeimt  Don  Pedro,  Don  John,  and  Claudio. 

Bene.    Hoav  doth  the  lady  ? 

Beat.  Dead,  I  think  ;  —  help,  uncle  ! 

Hero  !    Why,  Hero  ! — Uncle  ! — Seignior  Benedick  !  Friar ! 

Leon.    0  fate,  take  not  away  thy  heavy  hand ! 
Death  is  the  fairest  cover  for  her  shame, 
That  may  be  wished  for. 

Beat.  How  now,  cousin  Hero ! 

Friar.    Have  comfort,  lady. 

Leon.    Dost  thou  look  up  ? 

Friar.    Yea ;  wherefore  should  she  not  ? 

Leon.    Wherefore  ?     Why,  doth  not  every  earthly  thing 
Cry  shame  upon  her  ?     Could  she  here  deny 


Aot  IV.]       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  36» 

The  story  that  is  printed  in  her  blood?  — 
Do  not  live,  Hero ;  do  not  ope  thine  eyes : 
For  did  I  think  thou  wouldst  not  quickly  die, 
Thought  I  thy  spirits  were  stronger  than  thy  shames, 
Myself  would,  on  the  rearward  of  reproaches, 
Strike  at  thy  life.     Grieved  I,  I  had  but  one  ? 
Chid  I  for  that  at  frugal  nature's  frame  ? 
0,  one  too  much  by  thee  !     Why  had  I  one  ? 
Why  ever  wast  thou  lovely  in  my  eyes  ? 
"Why  had  I  not,  with  charitable  hand, 
Took  up  a  beggar's  issue  at  my  gates ; 
Who  smirched  thus,  and  mired  with  infamy, 
I  might  have  said.  No  paj-t  of  it  is  mine ; 
This  shame  derives  itself  from  unknown  loins? 
But  mine,  and  mine  I  loved,  and  mine  I  praised 
And  mine  that  I  was  proud  on  ;  mine  so  much, 
That  I  myself  was  to  myself  not  mine, 
Valuing  of  her:  why,  she  —  0,  she  is  fallen 
Into  a  pit  of  ink,  that  the  wide  sea 
Hath  drops  too  few  to  wash  her  clean  again ! 
And  salt  too  little,  which  may  season  give 
To  her  foul,  tainted  flesh ! 

Bene.  Sir,  sir,  be  patient: 

For  my  part,  I  am  so  attired  in  wonder, 
I  know  not  w^hat  to  say. 

Beat.    0,  on  my  soul,  my  cousin  is  belied ! 

Bene.    Lady,  were  you  her  bedfellow  last  night  ? 

Beat.    No,  truly  not;  although,  until  last  night, 
I  have  this  twelvemonth  been  her  bedfellow. 

Leon.    Confirmed,  confirmed  !     0,  that  is  stronger  made, 
Which  was  before  barred  up  with  ribs  of  iron ! 
Would  the  two  princes  lie  ?  and  Claudio  lie  ? 
Who  loved  her  so,  that,  speaking  of  her  foulness, 
Washed  it  with  tears?     Hence  from  her;  let  her  die. 

Friar.    Hear  me  a  little : 
For  I  have  only  been  silent  so  long, 
And  given  way  unto  this  course  of  fortune. 
By  noting  of  the  lady.     I  have  marked 
A  thousand  blushing  apparitions  start 
Into  her  face ;  a  thousand  innocent  shames 
In  angel  whiteness  bear  away  those  blushes  * 
And  in  her  eye  there  hath  appeared  a  fire. 
To  burn  the  errors  that  these  princes  hold 
Against  her  maiden  truth.  —  Call  me  a  fool ; 
Trust  not  my  reading  nor  my  observations. 
Which  with  experimental  zeal  doth  warrant 

Vol.  I.  —  24 


370  :\IUCIi  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.       [Act  IV 

The  tenor  of  my  book ;  trust  not  my  age, 
My  reverence,  calling,  nor  divinity, 
If  this  sweet  lady  lie  not  guiltless  here 
Under  some  biting  error. 

Leon.  Friar,  it  cannot  be. 

Thou  seest,  that  all  the  grace  that  she  hath  left, 
Is,  that  she  will  not  add  to  her  damnation 
A  sin  of  perjury ;  she  not"  denies  it. 
Why  seek'st  thou  then  to  cover  with  excuse 
That  which  appears  in  proper  nakedness  ? 

Friar.    Lady,  what  man  is  he  you  are  accused  of? 

Hero.    They  know,  that  do  accuse  me ;  I  know  none : 
If  I  know  more  of  any  man  alive. 
Than  that  which  maiden  modesty  doth  warrant, 
Let  all  my  sins  lack  mercy  I  —  0  my  father, 
Prove  you  that  any  man  with  me  conversed 
At  hours  unmeet,  or  that  I  yesternight 
Maintained  the  change  of  words  with  any  creature, 
Refuse  me,  hate  me,  torture  me  to  death. 

Friar.    There  is  some  strange  misprision  in  the  princes. 

Bene.    Two  of  them  have  the  very  bent  of  honor  ; 
And  if  their  wisdoms  be  misled  in  this, 
The  practice  of  it  lives  in  John  the  bastard. 
Whose  spirits  toil  in  frame  of  villanies. 

Leon.    I  know  not.     If  they  speak  but  truth  of  her, 
These  hands  shall  tear  her ;  if  they  wrong  her  honor, 
The  proudest  of  them  shall  well  hear  of  it. 
Time  hath  not  yet  so  dried  this  blood  of  mine, 
Nor  age  so  ate  up  my  invention. 
Nor  fortune  made  such  havock  of  my  means, 
Nor  my  bad  life  reft  me  so  much  of  friends. 
But  they  shall  find,  awaked  in  such  a  kind. 
Both  strength  of  limb,  and  policy  of  mind, 
Ability  in  means,  and  choice  of  friends. 
To  quit  me  of  them  thoroughly. 

Friar.  Pause  a  while, 

And  let  my  counsel  sway  you  in  this  case. 
Your  daughter  here  the  princes  left  for  dead. 
Let  her  awhile  be  secretly  kept  in. 
And  publish  it.  that  she  is  dead  indeed; 
Alaintain  a  mourning  ostentation ; 
And  on  your  family's  old  monument 
Hang  mournful  epitaphs,  and  do  all  rites 
That  appertain  unto  a  burial. 

Leon.    What  shall  become  of  this  ?     What  will  this  do? 

Friar,    INIarry,  this,  well  carried,  shall  on  her  behalf 


Act  IV.]       xMUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  371 

Change  slander  to  remorse ;  that  is  some  good. 

But  not  for  that  dream  I  on  this  strange  course, 

But  on  this  travail  look  for  greater  birth. 

She  dying,  as  it  must  be  so  maintained, 

Upon  the  instant  that  she  was  accused, 

Shall  be  lamented,  pitied,  and  excused, 

Of  every  hearer ;  for  it  so  falls  out, 

That  what  we  have,  we  prize  not  to  the  worth, 

Whiles  we  enjoy  it ;  but  being  lacked  and  lost, 

Why,  then  we  rack  the  value ;  then  we  find 

The  virtue,  that  possession  would  not  show  us 

Whiles  it  was  ours.  —  So  will  it  fare  with  Claudio 

When  he  shall  hear  she  died  upon  his  words, 

The  idea  of  her  life  shall  sweetly  creep 

Into  his  study  of  imagination ; 

And  every  lovely  organ  of  her  life 

Shall  come  apparelled  in  more  precious  habit, 

More  moving-delicate,  and  full  of  life. 

Into  the  eye  and  prospect  of  his  soul. 

Than  when  she  lived  indeed.     Then  shall  he  moun) 

(If  ever  love  had  interest  in  his  liver,) 

And  wish  he  had  not  so  accused  her ; 

No,  though  he  thought  his  accusation  true, 

Let  this  be  so,  and  doubt  not  but  succesc 

Will  fashion  the  event  in  better  shape, 

Than  I  can  lay  it  down  in  likelihood. 

But  if  all  aim  but  this  be  levelled  false. 

The  supposition  of  the  lady's  death 

Will  quench  the  wonder  of  her  infamy ; 

And,  if  it  sort  not  well,  you  may  conceal  her 

(As  best  befits  her  wounded  reputation) 

In  some  reclusive  and  religious  life, 

Out  of  all  eyes,  tongues,  minds,  and  injuries. 

Bene.    Seignior  Leonato,  let  the  friar  advise  you: 
And  though,  you  know,  my  inwardness  and  love 
Is  very  much  unto  the  prince  and  Claudio, 
Yet,  by  mine  honor,  I  will  deal  in  this 
As  secretly,  and  justly,  as  your  soul 
Should  with  your  body. 

Leon.  Being  that  I  flow  in  grief. 

The  smallest  twine  may  lead  me. 

Friar.    'Tis  well  consented.     Presently  away; 

For  to  strange  sores  strangely  they  strain  the  cure.-  — 

Come,  lady,  die  to  live :  this  wedding  day 

Perhaps  is  but  prolonged ;  have  patience,  and  endure. 
[Exeunt  Friar,  Hero,  and  Leonato. 


872  MUCH  x\DO  ABOUl  NOTIITNO.       [Act  IT 

Bene     Lady  Beatrice,  have  you  wept  all  this  while  ? 

Beat.    Yea,  and  I  will  weep  a  while  longer. 

Bene.    I  will  not  desire  that. 

Beat.    You  have  no  reason  ;  I  do  it  freely. 

Bene.    Surely,  I  do  believe  your  fair  cousin  is  wronged. 

Beat.  Ah,  how  much  might  the  man  deserve  of  me,  that 
would  right  her ! 

Bene.    Is  there  any  way  to  show  such  friendship  ? 

Beat.    A  very  even  way,  but  no  such  friend. 

Bene.    May  a  man  do  it? 

Beat.    It  is  a  man's  oflfice,  but  not  yours. 

Bene.  I  do  love  nothing  in  the  world  so  well  as  you  ;  is 
not  that  strange  ? 

Beat.  As  strange  as  the  thing  I  know  not.  It  were  as 
possible  for  me  to  say,  I  loved  nothing  so  well  as  you :  but 
believe  me  not ;  and  yet  I  lie  not ;  I  confess  nothing,  nor  J 
deny  nothing.  —  I  am  sorry  for  my  cousin. 

Bene.    By  my  sword,  Beatrice,  thou  lovest  me. 

Beat.    Do  not  swear  by  it,  and  eat  it. 

Bene.  I  will  swear  by  it,  that  you  love  me ;  and  I  will 
make  him  eat  it,  that  says  I  love  not  you. 

Beat.    Will  you  not  eat  your  word? 

Bene.  With  no  sauce  that  can  be  devised  to  it.  I  pro- 
test I  love  thee. 

Beat.    Why  then,   God  forgive  me ! 

Bene.    What  offence,  sweet  Beatrice  ? 

Beat.  You  have  stayed  me  in  a  happy  hour.  I  was  about 
to  protest  I  loved  you. 

Bene.    And  do  it  with  all  thy  heart. 

Beat.  I  love  you  with  so  much  of  my  heart,  that  none  is 
left  to  protest. 

Bene.    Come,  bid  me  do  any  thing  for  thee. 

Beat.    Kill  Claudio. 

Bene.    Ha !     Not  for  the  wide  world. 

Beat.    You  kill  me  to  deny  it.     Farewell. 

Bene.    Tarry,  sweet  Beatrice. 

Beat.  I  am  gone,  though  I  am  here.  —  There  is  no  love 
in  you.  —  Nay,  I  pray  you,  let  me  go. 

Bene.    Beatrice, — 

Beat.   In  faith,  I  will  go. 

Bene.    We'll  be  friends  first. 

Beat.  You  dare  easier  be  friends  with  me,  than  fight  with 
mine  enemy. 

Bene.   Is  Claudio  thine  enemy? 

Beat.  Is  he  not  approved  in  the  height  a  villain,  that  hath 


Aci  IV.]       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  373 

slandered,  scorned,  dishonored  my  kinswoman  ?  —  0,  that  I 
were  a  man  !  — What !  bear  her  in  hand  until  they  come  to 
take  hands ;  and  then  with  public  accusation,  uncovered 
slander,  unmitigated  rancor,  —  0  God,  that  I  were  a  man ! 
I  would  eat  his  heart  in  the  market-place. 

Bene.    Hear  me,  Beatrice — 

Beat.  Talk  with  a  man  out  at  a  window?  —  a  proper 
saying ! 

Bene.    Nay  but,  Beatrice — 

Beat.  Sweet  Hero  !  —  She  is  wronged,  she  is  slandered, 
she  is  undone. 

Bene.    Beat — 

Beat.  Princes,  and  counties !  Surely  a  princely  testi- 
mony, a  goodly  count-confect !  A  sweet  gallant,  surely ! 
0  that  I  were  a  man  for  his  sake  !  or  that  I  had  any  friend 
would  be  a  man  for  my  sake  !  But  manhood  is  melted  into 
courtesies,  valor  into  compliment,  and  men  are  only  turned 
into  tongue,  and  trim  ones  too.  He  is  now  as  valiant  as 
Hercules,  that  only  tells  a  lie,  and  swears  it.  —  I  cannot 
be  a  man  with  wishing,  therefore  I  will  die  a  woman  with 
grieving. 

Bene.    Tarry,  good  Beatrice.     By  this  hand,  I  love  thee. 

Beat.  Use  it  for  my  love  some  other  way  than  swearing 
by  it. 

Bene.  Think  you  in  your  soul  the  count  Claudio  hath 
wronged  Hero  ? 

Beat.    Yea,  as  sure  as  I  have  a  thought,  or  a  soul. 

Bene.  Enough  ;  I  am  engaged ;  I  will  challenge  him  ;  I 
will  kiss  your  hand,  and  so  leave  you.  By  this  hand, 
Claudio  shall  render  me  a  dear  account.  As  you  hear  of 
me,  so  think  of  me.  Go,  comfort  your  cousin ;  I  must  say 
she  19  dead ;  and  so  farewell.  [ExeunU 

SCENE  II.     A  Prison. 

Enter  Dogberry,  Verges,  and  Sexton,  in  gotvns ;  and 
the  Watch,  with  Conrade  and  Borachio.. 

Bogb.    Is  our  whole  dissembly  appeared  ? 

Verg.    0,  a  stool  and  a  cushion  for  the  sexton  ! 

Sexton.    Which  be  the  malefactors  ? 

Bogb.    Marry,  that  am  I  and  my  partner. 

Verg.  Nay,  that's  certain ;  we  have  the  exhibition  to 
examine. 

Sexton,  But  which  are  the  offenders  that  are  to  be  ex- 
amined ?   •  Let  them  come  before  master  constable. 

2a 


374  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.         [Act  IT, 

Dogh  Yea,  marry,  let  them  come  befoie  me. — What  is 
your  name,  friend  ? 

Bora.    Borachio. 

Dogh.    Pray  write  down  —  Borachio. Yours,  sirrah? 

Con.    I  am  a  gentleman,  sir,  and  my  name  is  Conrade. 

Dogh.  Write  down  —  master  gentleman  Conrade.  —  Mas- 
ters, do  you  serve  G  od  ? 

Con.  Bora.    Yea,  sir,  we  hope. 

Dogh.  Write  down  —  that  they  hope  they  serve  God;  — 
and  write  God  first ;  for  God  defend  but  God  should  go 
before  such  villains  !  —  Masters,  it  is  proved  already  that 
you  are  little  better  than  false  knaves ;  and  it  will  go  near 
to  be  thought  so  shortly.     How  answer  you  for  yourselves  ? 

Con.    Marry,  sir,  we  say  we  are  none. 

Dogh.  A  marvellous  witty  fellow,  I  assure  you;  but  I 
will  go  about  with  him.  —  Come  you  hither,  sirrah  ;  a  word 
in  your  ear,  sir ;  I  say  to  you,  it  is  thought  you  are  false 
knaves. 

Bora.    Sir,  I  say  to  you,  we  are  none. 

Dogh.  Well,  stand  aside. —  'Fore  God  they  are  both  in  a 
tale.     Have  you  writ  down  —  that  they  are  none? 

Sexton.  Master  constable,  you  go  not  the  way  to  examine ; 
you  must  call  forth  the  watch  that  are  their  accusers. 

Dogh.  Yea,  marry,  that's  the  eftest  way. — Let  the  watch 
come  forth.  —  Masters,  I  charge  you,  in  the  prince's  name, 
accuse  these  men. 

1  Watch.  This  man  said,  sir,  that  don  John,  the  prince's 
brother,  was  a  villain. 

Dogh.  Write  down  —  prince  John,  a  villain.  —  Why  this 
is  flat  perjury,  to  call  a  prince's  brother,  villain. 

Bora.    Master  constable, — 

Dogh.  Pray  thee,  fellow,  peace ;  I  do  not  like  thy*  look, 
I  promise  thee. 

Sexton.    What  heard  you  him  say  else  ? 

2  Watch.  Marry,  that  he  had  received  a  thousand  ducats 
of  don  John,  for  accusing  the  lady  Hero  wrongfully. 

Dogh.    Flat  burglary  as  ever  was  committed. 
Verg.    Yea,  by  the  mass,  that  it  is. 
Sexton.    What  else,  fellow  ? 

1  Watch.  And  that  count  Claudio  did  mean,  upon  his 
words,  to  disgrace  Hero  before  the  whole  assembly,  and  not 
marry  her. 

Dogh.    0  villain  !  thou  wilt  be  condemned  into  everlasting 
redemption  for  this. 
Sexton.    What  else  ? 

2  Watch.    This  is  all. 


Act  v.]         much  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  375 

Sexton.  And  this  is  more,  masters,  than  you  can  deny. 
Prince  John  is  this  morning  secretly  stolen  away.  Here 
was  in  this  manner  accused,  in  this  very  manner  refused, 
and  upon  the  grief  of  this,  suddenly  died. — Master  constable, 
let  these  men  be  bound,  and  brought  to  Leonato's ;  I  will 
go  before,  and  show  him  their  examination.  [Exit. 

Dogh.    Come,  let  them  be  opinioned. 

VerQ.    Let  them  be  in  the  bands — 

Con.    Off,  coxcomb  ! 

J)ogh.  God's  my  life !  where's  the  sexton  ?  Let  him 
write  down  —  the  prince's  officer,  coxcomb.  —  Come,  bind 
them. Thou  naughty  varlet ! 

Gon.    Away  !     You  are  an  ass,  you  are  an  ass. 

Dogh.  Dost  thou  not  suspect  my  place  ?  Dost  thou  not 
suspect  my  years  ?  —  0  that  he  were  here  to  write  me  down 
—  an  ass !  —  But,  masters,  remember,  that  I  am  an  ass ; 
though  it  be  not  written  down,  yet  forget  not  that  I  am  an 
ass.  —  No,  thou  villain,  thou  art  full  of  piety,  as  shall  be 
proved  upon  thee  by  good  witness.  I  am  a  wise  fellow ;  and, 
which  is  more,  an  officer ;  and,  which  is  more,  a  householder ; 
and,  which  is  more,  as  pretty  a  piece  of  flesh  as  any  is  in 
Messina ;  and  one  that  knows  the  law,  go  to ;  and  a  rich 
fellow  enough,  go  to ;  and  a  fellow  that  hath  had  losses ; 
and  one  that  hath  two  gowns,  and  every  thing  handsome 
about  him.  —  Bring  him  away.  0  that  I  had  been  writ 
down  —  an  ass.  \Exeunt. 


ACT    V. 

SCENE  L     Before  Leonato's  House. 
Enter  Leonato  and  Antonio. 

Ant.    If  you  go  on  thus,  you  will  kill  yourself: 
And  'tis  not  wisdom  thus  to  second  grief 
Against  yourself. 

Leon.  I  pray  thee,  cease  thy  counsel, 

Which  falls  into  mine  ears  as  profitless 
As  water  in  a  sieve.     Give  not  me  counsel ; 
Nor  let  no  comforter  delight  mine  ear, 
But  such  a  one  whose  wrongs  do  suit  with  mine. 
Bring  me  a  father,  that  so  loved  his  child, 
Whose  joy  of  her  is  overwhelmed  like  mine, 
And  bid  him  speik  of  patience ; 
Measure  his  woe  the  length  and  breadth  of  mine. 


876  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.         [Act  V 

And  let  it  answer  every  strain  for  strain  ; 

As  thus  for  thus,  and  such  a  grief  for  such, 

In  every  lineament,  branch,  shape,  and  form. 

If  such  a  one  will  smile,  and  stroke  his  beard ; 

Cry  —  sorrow,  wag!   and  hem,  when  he  should  groan; 

Patch  grief  with  proverbs ;  make  misfortune  drunk 

With  candle-wasters ;  bring  him  yet  to  me. 

And  I  of  him  will  gather  patience. 

But  there  is  no  such  man ;  for,  brother,  men 

Can  counsel,  and  speak  comfort  to  that  grief 

Which  they  themselves  not  feel ;  but,  tasting  it, 

Their  counsel  turns  to  passion,  which  before 

Would  give  preceptial  medicine  to  rage, 

Fetter  strong  madness  in  a  silken  thread, 

Charm  ache  with  air,  and  agony  with  words. 

No,  no ;  'tis  all  men's  office  to  speak  patience 

To  those  that  wring  under  the  load  of  sorrow ; 

But  no  man's  virtue,  nor  sufficiency. 

To  be  so  moral,  when  he  shall  endure 

The  like  himself.     Therefore  give  me  no  counsel; 

My  griefs  cry  louder  than  advertisement. 

Ant.    Therein  do  men  from  children  nothing  differ. 

Leon.    I  pray  thee,  peace.     I  will  be  flesh  and  blood  ; 
For  there  was  never  yet  philosopher. 
That  could  endure  the  tooth-ache  patiently ; 
However  they  have  writ  the  style  of  gods, 
And  made  a  push  at  chance  and  sufferance. 

Ant.    Yet  bend  not  all  the  harm  upon  yourself; 
Make  those  that  do  offend  you  suffer  too. 

Leo7i.    There  thou  speak'st  reason ;  nay,  I  will  do  so 
My  soul  doth  tell  me.  Hero  is  belied ; 
And  that  shall  Claudio  know  ;  so  shall  the  prince, 
And  all  of  them,  that  thus  dishonor  her. 

Unter  Don  Pedro  and  Claudio. 

Ant.    Here  comes  the  prince,  and  Claudio,  hastily. 

D.  Pedro.    Good  den,  good  den. 

Claud.  Good  day  to  both  of  you. 

Leon.    Hear  you,  my  lords, — 

J).  Pedro.  We  have  some  haste,  Leonato. 

Leon.    Some  haste,  my  lord! — Well,  fare  you  well,  my 
lord. — 
Are  you  so  hasty  now  ?  — Well,  all  is  one. 

L.  Pedro.    Nay,  do  not  quarrel  with  us,  good  old  man. 

Ant.    If  he  could  right  himself  with  quarrelling, 
Some  of  us  would  lie  low. 


Act  v.]  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  377 

Claud.  Who  wrongs  him? 

Leon.    Marry,  thou    dost  wrong    me ;    tliou    dissembler, 
thou. — 
Nay,  never  lay  thy  hand  upon  thy  sword ; 
I  fear  thee  not. 

Claud.  Marry,  beshrew  my  hand, 

If  it  should  give  your  age  such  cause  of  fear. 
In  faith,  my  hand  meant  nothing  to  my  sword. 

Leon.    Tush,  tush,  man,  never  fleer  and  jest  at  me. 
I  speak  not  like  a  dotard,  nor  a  fool ; 
A^,  under  privilege  of  age,  to  brag 
What  I  have  done,  being  young,  or  what  would  do, 
Were  1  not  old.     Know,   Claudio,  to  thy  head, 
Thou  hast  so  wronged  mine  innocent  child  and  me, 
That  I  am  forced  to  lay  my  reverence  by ; 
And,  with  gray  hairs,  and  bruise  of  many  days, 
To  challenge  thee  to  trial  of  a  man. 
I  say,  thou  hast  belied  mine  innocent  child : 
Thy  slander  hath  gone  through  and  through  her  heart, 
And  slie  lies  buried  with  her  ancestors. 
0  !  in  a  tomb  where  never  scandal  slept, 
Save  this  of  hers,  framed  by  thy  villany. 

Claud.    My  villany  ! 

Leon.  Thine,   Claudio ;  thine,  I  say. 

jD.  Pedro.    You  say  not  right,  old  man. 

Leon.  My  lord,  my  lord, 

I'll  prove  it  on  his  body,  if  he  dare ; 
Despite  his  nice  fence,  and  his  active  practice. 
His  May  of  youth,  and  bloom  of  lustihood. 

Claud.    Away,  I  will  not  have  to  do  with  you. 

Leon.    Canst   thou  so  daff  me  ?     Thou  hast    killed  my 
child ; 
If  thou  kill'st  me,  boy,  thou  shalt  kill  a  man. 

Ant.    He  shall  kill  two  of  us,  and  men  indeed. 
But  that's  no  matter;  let  him  kill  one  first  — 
Win  me  and  wear  me,  —  let  him  answer  me, — 
Come,  follow  me,  boy.     Come,  boy,  follow  me : 
Sir  boy,  I'll  whip  you  from  your  foining  fence  ; 
Nay,  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  I  will. 

Leon.    Brother, — 

Ant.    Content  yourself.     God  knows,  I  loved  my  niece ; 
And  she  is  dead,  slandered  to  death  by  villains, 
That  dare  as  well  answer  a  man,  indeed. 
As  I  dare  take  a  serpent  by  the  tongue ; 
Boys,  apes,  braggarts,  jacks,  milksops!  — 

Leon.  Brother  Antony, — 

2g* 


878  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.         [Act  y 

Ant.    Hold  you  content.    What,  man  !    I  know  tliein,  yea. 
And  what  they  weigh,  even  to  the  utmost  scrui^le : 
ScamMing,   out-facing,  favshion-mongring  boys. 
That  lie,  and  cog,  and  flout,  deprave  and  slander, 
Go  anticly,  and  show  outward  hideousness. 
And  speak  oif  half  a  dozen  dangerous  words. 
How  they  might  hurt  their  enemies,  if  they  durst, 
And  this  is  all. 

Leon.    But,  brother  Antony, — 

Ant.  Come,  'tis  no  matter ; 

Do  not  you  meddle:  let  me  deal  in  this. 

D.  Pedro.  Gentlemen  both,  we  will  not  wake  your  patience. 
My  heart  is  sorry  for  your  daughter's  death; 
But,  on  my  honor,  she  was  charged  with  nothing. 
But  what  was  true,  and  very  full  of  proof. 

Leon.    My  lord,  my  lord, — 

D.  Pedro.  I  will  not  hear  you. 

Leon.  J^o  ? 

Come,  brother,  away;  —  I  will  be  heard; — 

Ant.  And  shall, 

Or  some  of  us  will  smart  for  it. 

\_Exeunt  Leonato  and  Antonio. 

Enter  Benedick. 

J).  Pedro.    See,  see  ;  here  comes  the  man  we  went  to  seek. 

Claud.    Now,  seignior  !  what  news  ? 

Bene.    Good  day,  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.  Welcome,  seignior.  You  are  almost  come  to 
part  almost  a  fray. 

Claud.  We  had  like  to  have  had  our  two  noses  snapped 
off  with  two  old  men  without  teeth. 

D.  Pedro.  Leonato  and  his  brother.  What  think'st  thou? 
Had  we  fought,  I  doubt  we  should  have  been  too  young 
for  them. 

Bene.  In  a  false  quarrel  there  is  no  true  valor.  I  came 
to  seek  you  both. 

Claud.  We  have  been  up  and  down  to  seek  thee ;  for  we 
are  high-proof  melancholy,  and  would  fain  have  it  beaten 
away.     Wilt  thou  use  thy  wit  ? 

Bene.    It  is  in  my  scabbard.     Shall  I  draw  it  ? 

D.  Pedro.    Dost  thou  wear  thy  wit  by  thy  side  ? 

Claud.  Never  any  did  so,  though  very  many  have  been 
besiie  their  wit.  —  I  will  bid  thee  draw,  as  we  do  the  min- 
strels ;  draw,  to  pleasure  us. 

D.  Pedro.  As  I  am  an  honest  man,  he  looks  pale. — Art 
thou  sick,  or  angry  ? 


Act  v.]         much  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  379 

Claud.  What !  Courage,  man  !  What  though  care  killed 
a  cat,  thou  hast  mettle  enough  in  thee  to  kill  care. 

Bene.  Sir,  I  shall  meet  your  wit  in  the  career,  an  you 
charge  it  against  me.  — I  pray  you,  choose  another  subject. 

Claud.  Nay,  then  give  him  another  staff;  this  last  waa 
broke  cross. 

D.  Pedro.  By  this  light,  he  changes  more  and  more ;  I 
think  he  be  angry  indeed. 

Claud.    If  he  be,  he  knows  how  to  turn  his  girdle. 

Bene.    Shall  I  speak  a  word  in  your  ear  ? 

Claud.    God  bless  me  from  a  challenge  ! 

Bene.  You  are  a  villain.  —  I  jest  not ;  —  I  will  make  it 
good  how  you  dare,  with  what  you  dare,  and  when  you  dare. 
— Do  me  right,  or  I  will  protest  your  cowardice.  You  have 
killed  a  sweet  lady,  and  her  death  shall  fall  heavy  on  you. 
Let  me  hear  from  you. 

Claud.    W^ell,  I  will  meet  you,  so  I  may  have  good  cheer. 

B.  Pedro.    What,  a  feast  ?     A  feast  ? 

Claud.  I'faith,  I  thank  him ;  he  hath  bid  me  to  a  calf  a 
head  and  a  capon  ;  the  which  if  I  do  not  carve  most  curiously, 
say,  my  knife's  naught.  —  Shall  I  not  find  a  woodcock  too  ? 

Bene.    Sir,  your  wit  ambles  well ;  it  goes  easily. 

B.  Pedro.  I'll  tell  thee  how  Beatrice  praised  thy  wit  the 
other  day.  I  said  thou  hadst  a  fine  wit.  True,  says  she, 
a  fine  little  one  ;  No,  said  I,  a  great  wit ;  Right,  says  she, 
a  great  gross  07ie  ;  Nay,  said  I,  a  good  wit ;  Just,  said  she, 
it  hurts  nobody  ;  Nay,  said  I,  the  gentleman  is  ivise  ;  Cer- 
tain, says  she,  a  ivise  gentleman  ;  Nay,  said  I,  he  hath  the 
tongues  ;  That  I  believe,  said  she,  for  he  swore  a  thing  to 
me  on  Monday  night,  which  he  forsivore  on  Tuesday  morn- 
ing ;  there  s  a  double  tongue ;  there's  two  tongues.  Thus 
did  she,  an  hour  together,  transshape  thy  particular  virtues; 
yet,  at  last,  she  concluded,  with  a  sigh,  thou  wast  the  prop- 
erest  man  in  Italy. 

Claud.  For  the  which  she  wept  heartily,  and  said,  she 
cared  not. 

B.  Pedro.  Yea,  that  she  did ;  but  yet,  for  all  that,  and 
if  she  did  not  hate  him  deadly,  she  would  love  him  dearly. 
The  old  man's  daughter  told  us  all. 

Claud  All,  all ;  and  moreover,  God  saw  him  when  he 
was  hid  in  the  garden. 

B.  Pedro.  But  when  shall  we  set  the  savage  bull's  horns 
on  the  sensible  Benedick's  head  ? 

Claud.  Yea,  and  text  underneath,  Here  dwells  Benedick 
the  married  man  ? 

Bene.    Fare  you  well,  boy ;  you  know  my  mind ;  I  will 


880  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.         [Act  V 

leave  you  now  to  your  gossip-like  liumor ;  you  break  jests 
as  braggarts  do  their  blades,  which,  God  be  thanked,  hurt 
not. — My  lord,  for  your  many  courtesies  I  thank  you;  I 
must  discontinue  your  company.  Your  brother,  the  bastard, 
is  fled  from  Messina ;  you  have,  among  you,  killed  a  sweet 
and  innocent  lady.  For  my  lord  Lack-beard,  there,  he  and 
I  shall  meet ;  and  till  then,  peace  be  with  him. 

[^Uxit  Benedick. 

D.  JPcdro.    He  is  in  earnest. 

Claud.  In  most  profound  earnest ;  and  I'll  warrant  you, 
for  the  love  of  Beatrice. 

D.  Pedro.    And  hath  challenged  thee? 

Claud.    Most  sincerely. 

D.  Pedro.  What  a  pretty  thing  man  is,  when  he  goes  in 
his  doublet  and  hose,  and  leaves  off  his  wit ! 

Claud.  He  is  then  a  giant  to  an  ape ;  but  then  is  an  ape 
a  doctor  to  such  a  man. 

D.  Pedro.  But,  soft  you,  let  be ;  pluck  up,  my  heart, 
and  be  sad  !     Did  he  not  say,  my  brother  was  fled  ? 

Enter  Dogberry,  Verges,  and  the  Watch,  ivith  Conrade 
and  BoRACHio. 

Dogh.  Come,  you,  sir ;  if  justice  cannot  tame  you,  slie 
shall  ne'er  weigh  more  reasons  in  her  balance.  Nay,  and 
you  be  a  cursing  hypocrite  once,  you  must  be  looked  to. 

D.  Pedro.  How  now,  two  of  my  brother's  men  bound ! 
Borachio,  one  ! 

Claud.    Hearken  after  their  offence,  my  lord ! 

D.  Pedro.    Ofiicers,  what  offence  have  these  men  done  ? 

Dogh.  Marry,  sir,  they  have  committed  false  report ; 
moreover,  they  have  spoken  untruths ;  secondarily,  they 
are  slanderers;  sixth  and  lastly,  they  have  belied  a  lady; 
thirdly,  they  have  verified  unjust  things ;  and,  to  conclude, 
they  are  lying  knaves. 

I).  Pedro.  First,  I  ask  thee  what  they  have  done ;  thirdly, 
I  ask  thee  what's  their  offence ;  sixth  and  lastly,  why  they 
are  committed;  and,  to  conclude,  what  you  lay  to  their 
charge  ? 

Claud.  Rightly  reasoned,  and  in  his  own  division ;  and, 
by  my  troth,  there's  one  meaning  well  suited. 

D.  Pedro.  Whom  have  you  offended,  masters,  that  you 
are  thus  bound  to  your  answer  ?  This  learned  constable  is 
too  cunning  to  be  understood.     What's  your  offence  ? 

Bora.  Sweet  prince,  let  me  go  no  further  to  mine  answer; 
do  you  hear  me,  and  let  this  count  kill  me.  I  have  deceived 
even  your  very  eyes.     What  your  wisdoms  could  not  dis- 


Act  v.]  JIUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  3R"i 

cover,  these  shallow  fools  have  brought  to  light ;  who,  in  the 
night,  overheard  me  confessing  to  this  man,  how  don  John, 
your  brother,  incensed  me  to  slander  the  lady  Hero ;  how 
you  were  brought  into  the  orchard,  and  saw  me  court  Mar- 
garet in  Hero's  garment ;  how  you  disgraced  her  when  you 
should  marry  her.  My  villany  they  have  upon  record ; 
which  I  had  rather  seal  with  my  death,  than  repeat  over  to 
my  shame.  The  lady  is  dead  upon  mine  and  my  master's 
false  accusation :  and,  briefly,  I  desire  nothing  but  the  re- 
ward of  a  villain. 

D.  Pedro.    Runs  not  this  speech  like  iron  through  your 
blood  ? 

Claud.    I  have  drunk  poison,  whiles  he  uttered  it. 

D.  Pedro.    But  did  my  brother  set  thee  on  to  this? 

Bora.    Yea,  and  paid  me  richly  for  the  practice  of  it. 

D.  Ped>'o.  He  is  composed  and  framed  of  treachery;  — 
And  fled  he  is  upon  this  villany. 

Claud.    Sweet  Hero !     Now  thy  image  doth  appear 
In  the  rare  semblance  that  I  loved  it  first. 

Dogh.  Come,  bring  away  the  plaintifis.  By  this  time 
our  sexton  hath  reformed  seignior  Leonato  of  the  matter. 
And,  masters,  do  not  forget  to  specify,  when  time  and  place 
shall  serve,  that  I  am  an  ass. 

Verg.  Here,  here  comes  master  seignior  Leonato,  and 
the  sexton  too. 

Re-enter  Leonato  and  Antonio,  with  the  Sexton. 

Leon.    Which  is  the  villain?     Let  me  see  his  eyes; 
That  when  I  note  another  man  like  him, 
I  may  avoid  him.     Which  of  these  is  he  ? 

Bora.    If  you  would  know  your  wronger,  look  on  me. 

Leon.    Art  thou    the    slave,  that  with    thy  breath  hast 
killed 
Mine  innocent  child? 

Bora.  Yea,  even  I  alone. 

Leon.    No,  not  so,  villain ;  thou  bely'st  thyself. 
Here  stand  a  pair  of  honorable  men, 
Al  third  is  fled  that  had  a  hand  in  it. — 
I  thank  you,  princes,  for  my  daughter's  death. 
Record  it  with  your  high  and  worthy  deeds ; 
'Twas  bravely  done,  if  you  bethink  you  of  it. 

Claud.    I  know  not  how  to  pray  your  patience ; 
.Vet  I  must  speak.     Choose  your  revenge  yourself; 
Impose  me  to  what  penance  your  invention 
Can  lay  upon  my  sin.     Yet  sinned  I  not, 
But  in  mistaking. 


382  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.        [Act  V 

D.  Pedro.  By  my  soul,  nor  I ; 

And  yet,  to  satisfy  this  good  old  man, 
I  would  bend  under  any  heavy  weight 
That  he'll  enjoin  me  to. 

Leon.    I  cannot  bid  you  bid  my  daughter  live; 
That  were  impossible ;  but,  I  pray  you  both, 
Possess  the  people  in  Messina  here 
How  innocent  she  died ;  and,  if  your  love 
Can  labor  aught  in  sad  invention. 
Hang  her  an  epitaph  upon  her  tomb, 
And  sing  it  to  her  bones.     Sing  it  to-night. — 
To-morrow  morning  come  you  to  my  house ; 
And  since  you  could  not  be  my  son-in-law. 
Be  yet  my  nephew.     My  brother  hath  a  daughter, 
Almost  the  copy  of  my  child  that's  dead ; 
And  she  alone  is  heir  to  both  of  us : 
Give  her  the  right  you  should  have  given  her  cousin, 
And  so  dies  my  revenge. 

Claud.  0,  noble  sir. 

Your  over-kindness  doth  wring  tears  from  me ! 
I  do  embrace  your  oifer;  and  dispose 
For  henceforth  of  poor  Claudio. 

Leon.    To-morrow  then  I  will  expect  your  coming; 
To-night,  I  take  my  leave.  —  This  naughty  man 
Sliall  face  to  face  be  brought  to  Margaret, 
AVlio,  I  believe,  was  packed  in  all  this  wrong, 
Hired  to  it  by  your  brother. 

Bora.  No,  by  my  soul,  she  was  not; 

Nor  knew  not  what  she  did,  when  she  spoke  to  me ; 
But  always  hath  been  just  and  virtuous. 
In  any  thing  that  I  do  know  by  her. 

Dogh.  Moreover,  sir,  (which,  indeed,  is  not  under  white 
and  black,)  this  plaintiff  here,  the  oifender,  did  call  me  ass. 
I  beseech  you,  let  it  be  remembered  in  his  punishment ; 
and  also,  the  watch  heard  them  talk  of  one  Deformed :  they 
say,  he  wears  a  key  in  his  ear,  and  a  lock  hanging  by  it, 
and  borrows  money  in  God's  name ;  the  which  he  hath  used 
so  long,  and  never  paid,  that  now  men  grow  hard-hearted, 
and  will  lend  nothing  for  God's  sake.  Pray  you,  examine 
him  upon  that  point. 

Leon.    I  thank  thee  for  thy  care  and  honest  pains. 

Dogb.  Your  worship  speaks  like  a  most  thankful  and  reve- 
rend youth ;  and  I  praise  God  for  you. 

Leon.    There's  for  thy  pains. 

Dogb.    God  save  the  foundation. 

Leon.  Go,  I  discharge  thee  of  thy  prisoner,  and  I  thank 
thee. 


Act  v.]         much  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  38b 

Dogh.  I  leave  an  errant  knave  with  your  worship  ;  which, 
I  heseech  your  worship,  to  correct  yourself,  for  the  example 
of  others.  God  keep  your  worship ;  I  wish  your  worship 
well ;  God  restore  you  to  health ;  I  humbly  give  you  leave 
to  depart ;  and  if  a  merry  meeting  may  be  wished,  God 
prohibit  it.  —  Come,  neighbor. 

[Exeunt  Dogberry,  Verges,  and  Watch. 

Leon.    Until  to-morrow  morning,  lords,  fare  well. 

Ant.    Farewell,  my  lords  ;  we  look  for  you  to-morrow. 

D.  Pedro.    We  will  not  fail. 

Claud.  To-night  I'll  mourn  with  Hero. 

\_Exeunt  Don  Pedro  aiid  Claudio. 

Leon.    Bring  you  these  fellows  on ;  we'll  talk  with  Mar- 
garet, 
How  her  acquaintance  grew  with  this  lewd  fellow.   \_Lxeunt. 

SCENE  II.     Leonato's  Garden. 
Enter  Benedick  and  Margaret,  meeting. 

Bene.  Pray  thee,  sweet  mistress  Margaret,  deserve  well 
at  my  hands,  by  helping  me  to  the  speech  of  Beatrice. 

Marg.  Will  you  then  write  me  a  sonnet  in  praise  of  my 
beauty  ? 

Bene.  In  so  high  a  style,  Margaret,  that  no  man  living 
shall  come  over  it ;  for,  in  most  comely  truth,  thou  deserv- 
est  it. 

Marg.  To  have  no  man  come  over  me  ?  Why,  shall  1 
always  keep  below  stairs  ? 

Bene.  Thy  wit  is  as  quick  as  the  greyhound's  mouth ;  it 
catches. 

Marg.  And  yours  as  blunt  as  the  fencer's  foils,  which  hit, 
but  hurt  not. 

Bene.  A  most  manly  wit,  Margaret ;  it  will  not  hurt  a 
woman ;  and  so,  I  pray  thee,  call  Beatrice.  I  give  thee  the 
bucklers. 

Marg.    Give  us  the  swords  ;  we  have  bucklers  of  our  own. 

Bene.  If  you  use  them,  Margaret,  you  must  put  in  the 
pikes  with  a  vice ;  and  they  are  dangerous  weapons  for  maids. 

Marg.  Well,  I  will  call  Beatrice  to  you,  who,  I  think, 
hath  legs.  \_Exit  Margaret. 

Bene.    And  therefore  will  come. 

The  gol  of  love,  [Singing 

That  sits  above, 
And  knoivs  me,  and  knows  me, 
How  pitiful  I  deserve, — 


% 


384  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.         [Act  V. 

I  mean,  in  singing  ;  but  in  loving, — Leander  the  good  swim- 
mer, Troilus  the  first  employer  of  panders,  and  a  whole  book 
full  of  these  (quondam  carpet-mongers,  whose  names  yet  run 
smoothly  in  tlie  even  road  of  a  blank  verse,  why,  they  were 
never  so  truly  turned  over  and  over  as  my  poor  self,  in  love. 
Marry,  I  cannot  show  it  in  rhyme  ;  I  have  tried ;  I  can  find 
out  no  rhyme  to  lady  hut  baby,  an  innocent  rhyme  ;  for  scorn, 
horn,  a  hard  rhyme;  for  school,  fool,  a  babbling  rhyme;  very 
ominous  endings.  No,  I  was  not  born  under  a  rhyming 
planet,  nor  I  cannot  woo  in  festival  terms. — 

Enter  Beatrice. 

Sweet  Beatrice,  would'st  thou  come  when  I  called  thee  ? 

Beat.    Yea,  seignior,  and  depart  when  you  bid  me. 

Bene.    0,  stay  but  till  then ! 

Beat.  Then,  is  spoken ;  fare  you  well  now.  —  And  yet, 
ere  I  go,  let  me  go  with  that  I  came  for,  which  is,  with 
knowing  what  hath  passed  between  you  and  Claudio. 

Bene.    Only  foul  words ;  and  thereupon  I  will  kiss  thee. 

Beat.  Foul  words  is  but  foul  wind,  and  foul  wind  is  but 
foul  breath,  and  foul  breath  is  noisome :  therefore  I  will 
depart  unkissed. 

Bene.  Thou  hast  frighted  the  word  out  of  his  right  sense, 
so  forcible  is  thy  wit.  But,  I  must  tell  thee  plainly,  Claudio 
undergoes  my  challenge ;  and  either  I  must  shortly  hear 
from  him,  or  I  will  subscribe  him  a  coward.  And,  I  pray 
thee  now,  tell  me,  for  which  of  my  bad  parts  didst  thou  first 
fall  in  love  with  me  ? 

Beat.  For  them  all  together  ;  which  maintained  so  politic 
a  state  of  evil,  that  they  will  not  admit  any  good  part  to 
intermingle  with  them.  But  for  which  of  my  good  parts  did 
you  first  suffer  love  for  me  ? 

Bene.  Suffer  love !  a  good  epithet !  I  do  sufi'er  love, 
indeed,  for  I  love  thee  against  my  will. 

Beat.  In  spite  of  your  heart,  I  think.  Alas  !  poor  heart ! 
If  you  spite  it  for  my  sake,  I  will  spite  it  for  yours ;  for  I 
will  never  love  that  which  my  friend  hates. 

Bene.    Thou  and  I  are  too  wise  to  woo  peaceably. 

Beat.  It  appears  not  in  this  confession.  There's  not  one 
wise  man  among  twenty  that  will  praise  himself. 

Bene.  An  old,  an  old  instance,  Beatrice,  that  lived  in  the 
time  of  good  neighbors.  If  a  man  do  not  erect  in  this  age 
his  own  tomb  ere  he  dies,  he  shall  live  no  longer  in  monu- 
ment, than  the  bell  rings,  and  the  widow  weeps. 

Beat.    And  how  long  is  that,  think  you  ? 

Bene.    Question  !  — Why,  an  hour  in  clamor,  and  a  quar- 


A.CT  v.]         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHINCt.  385 

cer  in  iheura.  Therefore  it  is  most  expedient  for  the  wise 
(if  don  Worm,  his  conscience,  find  no  impediment  to  the 
contrary)  to  be  the  trumpet  of  his  own  virtues,  as  I  am  to 
myself.  So  much  for  praising  myself,  (who,  I  myself  will 
bear  witness,  is  praiseworthy ;)  and  now  tell  me,  how  doth 
your  cousin  ? 

Beat.    Very  ill. 

Bene.   And  how  do  you? 

Beat.    Very  ill  too. 

Bene.  Serve  God,  love  me,  and  mend.  There  will  I  leave 
you  too,  for  here  comes  one  in  haste. 

Enter  Ursula. 

Urs.  Madam,  you  must  come  to  your  uncle ;  yonder's 
old  coil  at  home.  It  is  proved  my  lady  Hero  hath  been 
falsely  accused,  the  prince  and  Claudio  mightily  abused; 
and  don  John  is  the  author  of  all,  who  is  fled  and  gone. 
Will  you  come  presently  ? 

Beat.    Will  you  go  hear  this  news,  seignior  ? 

Bene.  I  Fill  live  in  thy  heart,  die  in  thy  lap,  and  be  buried 
in  thy  eyes ;  and,  moreover,  I  will  go  with  thee  to  thy 
uncle's.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.     The  inside  of  a  Qhurch. 

Enter  Don  Pedro,  Claudio,  and  Attendants,  with  music 
and  tapers. 

Claud.    Is  this  the  monument  of  Leonato  ? 

Atten.    It  is,  my  lord. 

Claud.    [Beads  from  a  seroU.'] 

Bong  to  death  hy  slanderous  tongues 
Was  the  Hero  that  here  lies; 

Death,  in  guerdon  of  her  wrongs, 
Gives  her  fame  ivhich  never  dies ; 

So  the  life,  that  died  with  shame, 

Lives  in  death  with  glorious  fame. 

Hang  thou  there  upon  the  tomb,    [Affixing  it 
Praising  her  when  I  am  dumb. — 

Now,  music,  sound,  and  sing  your  solemn  hymn. 

SONG. 

Pardon,   Goddess  of  the  night, 
Those  that  slew  thy  virgin  knight: 
For  the  which,  with  songs  of  woe. 
Round  about  her  tomb  they  g:>. 
Vol.  I.  — 25  2h 


886  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.         [Act  V 

Midnight  assist  our  moan; 
Help  us  to  sigh  and  groan, 

Heavily,  heavily. 
Graves,  yawn  and  yield  your  dead^ 
Till  death  he  uttered. 

Heavenly,  heavenly. 

Claud.    Now,  unto  thy  bones  good  night! 
Yearly  will  I  do  this  rite. 

D.  Pedro.    Good  morrow,  masters.  Put  your  torches  out ; 

The  wolves  have  preyed ;  and  look,  the  gentle  day, 
Before  the  wheels  of  Phoebus,  round  about 

Dapples  the  drowsy  east  with  spots  of  gray. 
Thanks  to  you  all,  and  leave  us ;  fare  you  well. 

Claud.    Good  morrow,  masters  ;  each  his  several  way. 

D.  Pedro.    Come,  let  us  hence,  and  put  on  other  weeds ; 
And  then  to  Leonato's  we  will  go. 

Claud.    And,  Hymen,  now  with  luckier  issue  speeds, 
Than  this,  for  whom  we  rendered  up  this  woe !       [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.     A  Room  in  Leonato's  House. 

Enter  Leonato,  Antonio,  Benedick,  Beatrice,  Ursula, 
Friar,  and  Hero. 

Friar.   Did  I  not  tell  you  she  was  innocent  ? 

Leon.    So  are  the  prince  and  Claudio,  who  accused  her 
Upon  the  error  that  you  heard  debated. 
But  Margaret  was  in  some  fault  for  this; 
Although  against  her  will,  as  it  appears 
In  the  true  course  of  all  the  question. 

A7it.    Well,  I  am  glad  that  all  things  sort  so  well. 

Bene.    And  so  am  I,  being  else  by  faith  enforced 
To  call  young  Claudio  to  a  reckoning  for  it. 

Leon.    Well,  daughter,  and  you  gentlewomen  all, 
Withdraw  into  a  chamber  by  yourselves ; 
And,  when  I  send  for  you,  come  hither  masked. 
The  prince  and  Claudio  promised  by  this  hour 
To  visit  me.  — You  know  your  office,  brother ; 
You  must  be  father  to  your  brother's  daughter. 
And  give  her  to  young  Claudio.  [^JSxeunt  Ladies, 

Ant.    Which  I  will  do  with  confirmed  countenance. 

Bene.    Friar,  I  must  entreat  your  pains,  I  think. 

Friar.    To  do  what,  seignior? 

Beiie     To  bind  me,  or  undo  me,  one  of  them. — 
Seignior  Leonato,  truth  it  is,  good  seignior. 
Your  niece  regards  me  with  an  eye  of  favor. 


Act  v.]         much  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  38/ 

Leon.    That  eye  my  daughter  lent  her.     'Tis  most  true. 

Bene.    And  I  do  with  an  eye  of  love  requite  her. 

Leon.    The  sight  whereof,  I  think,  you  had  from  me, 
From  Claudio,  and  the  prince.     But  what's  your  will? 

Bene.    Your  answer,  sir,  is  enigmatical : 
But,  for  my  will,  my  will  is,  your  good  will 
May  stand  with  ours,  this  day  to  be  conjoined 
In  the  estate  of  honorable  marriage ; — 
In  which,  good  friar,  I  shall  desire  your  help. 

Leon.    My  heart  is  with  your  liking. 

Friar.  And  my  help. — 

Here  comes  the  prince,  and  Claudio. 

Enter  Don  Pedro,  and  Claudio,  with  Attendants. 

D.  Pedro.    Good  morrow  to  this  fair  assembly. 

Leon.    Good  morrow,  prince ;  good  morrow,   Claudio. 
We  here  attend  you ;  are  you  yet  determined 
To-day  to  marry  with  my  brother's  daughter? 

Claud.    I'll  hold  my  mind,   were  she  an  Ethiope. 

Leon.    Call  her  forth,  brother,  here's  the  friar  ready. 

[^Exit  Antonio. 

D.  Pedro.    Good  morrow,  Benedick.     Why,  what's  the 
matter, 
That  you  have  such  a  February  face, 
So  full  of  frost,  of  storm,  and  cloudiness? 

Claud.    I  think,  he  thinks  upon  the  savage  bull. 
Tush,  fear  not,  man,  we'll  tip  thy  horns  with  gold, 
And  all  Europa  shall  rejoice  at  thee ; 
As  once  Europa  did  at  lusty  Jove, 
When  he  would  play  the  noble  beast  in  love. 

Bene.    Bull  Jove,  sir,  had  an  amiable  low ; 
And  some  such  strange  bull  leaped  your  father's  cow, 
And  got  a  calf  in  that  same  noble  feat. 
Much  like  to  you,  for  you  have  just  his  bleat. 

He-enter  Antonio,  with  the  Ladies  masked. 

Claud.  For  this  I  owe  you ;  here  comes  other  reckoning. 
Which  is  the  lady  I  must  seize  upon  ? 

Ant.    This  same  is  she,  and  I  do  give  you  her. 

Claud.  Why,  then  she's  mine.    Sweet,  let  me  see  your  face 

Leon.   No,  that  you  shall  not,  till  you  take  her  hand 
Before  this  friar,  and  swear  to  marry  her. 

Claud.    Give  me  your  hand  before  this  holy  friar; 
I  am  your  husband  if  you  like  of  me. 


388  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.         [Act  V 

Hero.    And  when  I  lived,  I  was  your  other  wife : 

[  Unynasklng. 
And  Avhen  you  loved,  you  were  my  other  husband. 

Claud   xVnother  Hero  ! 

Hero.  Nothing  certainer. 

One  Hero  died  defiled ;  but  I  do  live, 
And  surely  as  I  live,  I  am  a  maid. 

D.  Pedro.    The  former  Hero  !     Hero  that  is  dead ! 

Leon.    She  died,  my  lord,  but  whiles  her  slander  lived. 

Friar.    All  this  amazement  can  I  qualify ; 
When,   after  that  the  holy  rites  are  ended, 
I'll  tell  you  largely  of  fair  Hero's  death. 
Meantime,  let  wonder  seem  familiar. 
And  to  the  chapel  let  us  presently. 

Bene.    Soft  and  fair,  friar.  —  Which  is  Beatrice? 

Beat.  I  answer  to  that  name ;  [  Unmasking.']     What  ih 
your  will? 

Bene.    Do  not  you  love  me  ? 

Beat.  Why,  no,  no  more  than  reason. 

Bene.  Why,  then  your  uncle,  and  the  prince,  and  Claudio, 
Have  been  deceived ;  for  they  swore  you  did. 

Beat.    Do  not  you  love  me  ? 

Bene.  Troth,  no,  no  more  than  reason. 

Beat.  Why,  then  my  cousin,  Margaret,  and  Ursula, 
Are  much  deceived ;  for  they  did  swear  you  did. 

Bene.    They  swore  that  you  were  almost  sick  for  me. 

Beat.    They  swore  that  you  were  well-nigh  dead  for  me. 

Bene.    'Tis  no  such  matter. — Then  you  do  not  love  me? 

Beat.    No,  truly,  but  in  friendly  recompense. 

Leon.   Come,  cousin,  I  am  sure  you  love  the  gentleman. 

Claud.    And  I'll  be  sworn  upon't,  that  he  loves  her; 
For  here's  a  paper,  written  in  his  hand, 
A  halting  sonnet,  of  his  own  pure  brain, 
Fashioned  to  Beatrice. 

Hero.  And  here's  another, 

Writ  in  my  cousin's  hand,  stolen  from  her  pocket, 
Containing  her  affection  unto  Benedick. 

Bene.  A  miracle !  Here's  our  own  hands  against  our 
hearts  !  —  Come,  I  will  have  thee ;  but,  by  this  light,  I  take 
thee  for  pity. 

Beat.  I  would  not  deny  you;  but,  by  this  good  day,  I 
yield  upon  great  persuasion ;  and,  partly,  to  save  your  life, 
for  I  was  told  you  were  in  a  consumption. 

Bene.    Peace,  I  will  stop  your  mouth.       [Kissing  her. 

D.  Pedro.    How  dost  thou.  Benedick  the  married  man  ? 

Bene.  I'll  tell  thee  what,  prince  ;  a  college  of  wit-crackers 


Act  v.]         much  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  389 

cannot  floul  me  out  of  my  humor.  Dost  thou  think  I  care 
for  a  satire,  or  an  epigram  ?  No ;  if  a  man  will  be  beaten 
with  brains,  he  shall  wear  nothing  handsome  about  bira.  In 
brief,  since  I  do  propose  to  marry,  I  will  think  nothing  to 
any  purpose  that  the  world  can  say  against  it ;  and  there- 
fore never  flout  at  me  for  what  I  have  said  against  it ;  for 
man  is  a  giddy  thing,  and  this  is  my  conclusion.  —  For  thy 
part,  Claudio,  I  did  think  to  have  beaten  thee ;  but  in  that 
thou  art  like  to  be  my  kinsman,  live  unbruised,  and  love 
my  cousin. 

Claud.  I  had  well  hoped  thou  wouldst  have  denied  Bea- 
trice, that  I  might  have  cudgelled  thee  out  of  thy  single  life, 
to  make  thee  a  double  dealer ;  which,  out  of  question,  thou 
wilt  be,  if  my  cousin  do  not  look  exceeding  narrowly  to  thee. 

Bene.  Come,  come,  we  are  friends ; — Let's  have  a  dance 
ere  we  are  married,  that  we  may  lighten  our  own  hearts, 
and  our  wives'  heels. 

Leon.    We'll  have  dancing  afterwards. 

Bene.  First,  o'  my  word :  therefore,  play,  music — prince, 
thou  art  sad ;  get  thee  a  wife,  get  thee  a  wife ;  there  is  no 
staff  more  reverend  than  one  tipped  with  horn. 

filter  a  Messenger. 

Mes8.    My  lord,  your  brother  John  is  ta'en  in  flight, 
And  brought  with  armed  men  back  to  Messina. 

Be7ie  Think  not  on  him  till  to-morrow ;  I'll  devise  thee 
Drave  punishments  for  him.  —  Strike  up,  pipers. 

l_I>anee.      Exeunt. 

2b* 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


391 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED 

Theseus,  Duke  of  Athens. 
Egeus,  Father  to  Hermia. 

LySANDER,      )    •       7  w     TT 

Demetrius,  \  '«  ^''^^  «'*^^'  hermia. 
Philostrate,  Master  of  the  Revels  to  Theseus. 
Quince,  the  Carpenter. 
^NUG,  the  Joiner. 
Bottom,  the   Weaver. 
Flute,  the  Belloios-mender. 
Snout,  the    Tinker. 
Starveling,  the   Tailor. 

HiPPOLYTA,  Queen  of  the  Amazons,  betrothed  to  G'heseus. 
Hermia,  Daughter  of  Egeus,  in  love  with  Lysander. 
Helena,  in  love  with  Dcmetriup 

Oberon,  King  of  the  Fairies. 
Titania,    Queen  of  the  Fairies. 
Puck,  or  Kobin-goobeellow,  a  Fairy. 
Peas-blossom,  ^ 
Cobweb,  {    r?  ■  ■ 

Moth,  >  ^^'''''' 

Mustard-seed,  J 
Pyramus,     ") 

Watt   '  I  ^^^"^^'^^^^^  ^"  '^^  Interlude  performed  by 

Moonshine,  |  ^^'  ^^^«'"*- 

Lion,  J 

Other  Fairies  attending  thei"^  K'''ig  d'nd  Queen.     Attendants  on 
Theseus  and  Hippolyta. 

SCENE.      Athens,  and  a   Wood  not  far  from  it. 

^393) 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


ACT   I. 

CENE  I.    Athens.    A  Room  in  the  Palace  cf  Theseus, 

Enter  Theseus,  Hippolyta,  Philostrate  and 
Attendants. 

TJieseus.    Now,  fiiir  Hippolyta,  our  nuptial  hour 
Draws  on  apace ;  four  happy  days  bring  in 
Another  moon.     But,   0,  methinks  how  slow 
This  old  moon  wanes !     She  lingers  my  desires, 
Like  to  a  step-dame,  or  a  dowager, 
Long  withering  out  a  young  man's  revenue. 

Hip.    Four  days  will  quickly  steep  themselves  in  nights  j 
Four  nights  will  quickly  dream  away  the  time ; 
And  then  the  moon,  like  to  a  silver  bow 
New  bent  in  heaven,  shall  behold  the  night 
Of  our  solemnities. 

The.  Go,  Philostrate, 

Stir  up  the  Athenian  youths  to  merriments; 
Awake  the  pert  and  nimble  spiint  of  mirth ; 
Turn  melancholy  forth  to  funerals ; 
The  pale  companion  is  not  for  our  pomp. — 

\_Ezit  Philostrate 
Hippolyta,  I  wooed  thee  with  my  sword, 
And  won  thy  love,  doing  thee  injuries ; 
But  I  will  wed  thee  in  another  key. 
With  pomp,  with  triumph,  and  with  revelling. 

Enter  Egeus,  Hermia,  Lysander,  and  Demetrids. 

Ege.    Happy  be  Theseus,  our  renoAvnod  duke ! 

The.    Thanks,  good  Egeus.     What's  the  ncAvs  with  thee  ? 

Ege.    Full  of  vexation  come  I,  with  complaint 
Against  my  child,  my  daughter  Hermia. — 
Stand  forth,  Demetrius;  —  my  noble  lord, 
This  man  hath  my  consent  to  marry  her. — 


S94  MIDSUMiMER-NIGIIT'S  DREAM.  [Act  I 

Stand  forth,  Lysander;  —  and,  my  gracious  duke, 

This  hath  bewitched  the  bosom  of  my  child. 

Thou,  thou,  Lysander  thou  hast  given  her  rhymes, 

And  interchanged  love  tokens  "with  my  child; 

Thou  hast  by  moonlight  at  her  window  sung, 

With  feigning  voice,  verses  of  feigning  love ; 

And  stolen  the  impression  of  her  fantasy 

With  bracelets  of  thy  hair,  rings,  gawds,  conceits, 

Knacks,  trifles,  nosegays,  sweetmeats ;  messengers 

Of  strong  prevailment  in  unhardened  youth. 

With  cunning  hast  thou  filched  my  daughter's  heart; 

Turned  her  obedience,  which  is  due  to  me. 

To  stubborn  harshness ;  —  And,  my  gracious  duke, 

Be  it  so  she  will  not  here  before  your  grace 

Consent  to  marry  with  Demetrius, 

I  beg  the  ancient  privilege  of  Athens, 

As  she  is  mine,  I  may  dispose  of  her ; 

Which  shall  be  either  to  this  gentleman 

Or  to  her  death ;  according  to  our  law, 

Immediately  provided  in  that  case. 

The.    What  say  you,  Hermia  ?     Be  advised,  fair  maid. 
To  you  your  father  should  be  as  a  god; 
One  that  composed  your  beauties ;  yea,  and  one 
To  whom  you  are  but  as  a  form  in  wax. 
By  him  imprinted,  and  within  his  power 
To  leave  the  figure,  or  disfigure  it. 
Demetrius  is  a  worthy  gentleman. 

Her.    So  is  Lysander. 

The.  In  himself  he  is : 

But,  in  this  kind,  wanting  your  father's  voice. 
The  other  must  be  held  the  worthier. 

Ser.    I  would  my  father  looked  but  with  my  eyes. 

The.   Rather  your  eyes  must  with  his  judgment  look. 

Her.    I  do  entreat  your  grace  to  pardon  me. 
I  know  not  by  what  power  I  am  made  bold. 
Nor  how  it  may  concern  my  modesty. 
In  such  a  presence  here,  to  plead  my  thoughts; 
But  I  beseech  your  grace  that  I  may  know 
The  worst  that  may  befall  me  in  this  case, 
If  I  refuse  to  wed  Demetrius. 

The.   Either  to  die  the  death,  or  to  abjure 
For  ever  the  society  of  men. 
Therefore,  fair  Hermia,  question  your  desires. 
Know  of  your  youth,  examine  well  your  blood. 
Whether,  if  you  yield  not  to  your  father's  choice, 
You  can  endure  the  livery  of  a  nun ; 


A.CT  I.]  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  395 

For  aye  to  be  in  shady  cloister  mewed, 

To  live  a  barren  sister  all  your  life, 

Chanting  faint  hymns  to  the  cold,  fruitless  moon. 

Thrice  blessed  they,  that  master  so  their  blood, 

To  undergo  such  maiden  pilgrimage : 

But  earthlier  happy  is  the  rose  distilled. 

Than  that,  which,  withering  on  the  virgin  thorn, 

Grows,  lives,  and  dies  in  single  blessedness. 

Her.    So  will  I  grow,  so  live,  so  die,  my  lord, 
Ere  I  will  yield  my  virgin  patent  up 
Unto  his  lordship,  whose  unwished  yoke 
My  soul  consents  not  to  give  sovereignty. 

Tlie.    Take  time  to  pause,  and,  by  the  next  new  moon, 
(The  sealing-day  betwixt  my  love  and  me. 
For  everlasting  bond  of  fellowship,) 
Upon  that  day  either  prepare  to  die, 
For  disobedience  to  your  father's  will ; 
Or  else  to  wed  Demetrius,  as  he  would; 
Or  on  Diana's  altar  to  protest, 
For  aye,  austerity  and  single  life. 

Dem.    Relent,  sweet  Hermia ;  —  and,  Lysander,  yield 
Thy  crazed  title  to  my  certain  right. 

Lys.    You  have  her  father's  love,  Demetrius ; 
Let  me  have  Hermia's.     Do  you  marry  him. 

Ege.    Scornful  Lysander !  true,  he  hath  my  love, 
And  what  is  mine  my  love  shall  render  him ; 
And  she  is  mine ;  and  all  my  right  of  her 
I  do  estate  unto  Demetrius. 

Lys.   I  am,  my  lord,  as  well  derived  as  he, 
As  well  possessed :  my  love  is  more  than  his ;  r" 

My  fortunes  every  way  as  fairly  ranked. 
If  not  with  vantage,  as  Demetrius' ; 
And,  which  is  more  than  all  these  boasts  can  be, 
I  am  beloved  of  beauteous  Hermia. 
Why  should  I  then  not  prosecute  my  right? 
Demetrius,  I'll  avouch  it  to  his  head. 
Made  love  to  Nedar's  daughter,  Helena, 
And  won  her  soul ;  and  she,  sweet  lady,  dotes, 
Devoutly  dotes,  dotes  in  idolatry. 
Upon  this  spotted  and  inconstant  man. 

Th(\.    I  must  confess,  that  I  have  heard  so  much, 
And  with  Demetrius  thought  to  have  spoke  thereof; 
But,  being  over-full  of  self-affairs. 
My  mind  did  lose  it.     But,  Demetrius,  come. 
And  come,  Egeus ;  you  shall  go  with  me ; 
I  have  some  private  schooling  for  you  both. — 


896  MIPSUMMER-NIGIIT'S  DREAM.  [Act  1. 

For  yon,  fiiii*  Ilermia,  look  you  arm  yourself 

To  tit  your  fancies  to  your  father's  "will ; 

Or  else  the  law  of  Athens  yields  you  up 

(Which  by  no  means  we  may  extenuate) 

To  death,   or  to  a  voav  of  single  life. — 

Come,  my  Hippolyta.     What  cheer,  my  love  ?  — 

Demetrius,  and  Egeus,  go  along : 

I  must  employ  you  in  some  business 

Against  our  nuptial ;  and  confer  with  you 

Of  something  nearly  that  concerns  yourselves. 

Ege.    With  duty  and  desire  we  follow  you. 

\Exeuiit  Theseus,  Hyppolyta,  Egeus, 
Demetrius,  and  Train. 

Lys.    How  now,  my  love  !     Why  is  your  cheek  so  pale  ' 
How  chance  the  roses  there  do  fade  so  fast  ? 

Her.    Belike,  for  want  of  rain ;  which  I  could  well 
Beteem  them  from  the  tempest  of  mine  eyes. 

Lys.    Ah  me  !     For  aught  that  ever  I  could  read. 
Could  ever  hear  by  tale  or  history, 
The  course  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth ! 
But  either  it  was  different  in  blood, — 

Her.    0  cross  !  too  high  to  be  enthralled  to  low ! 

Lys.    Or  else  misgraffed  in  respect  of  years. 

Her.    0  spite !  too  old  to  be  engaged  to  young ! 

Lys.    Or  else  it  stood  upon  the  choice  of  friends. 

Her.    0  hell !  to  choose  love  by  another's  eye ! 

Lys.    Or,  if  there  were  a  sympathy  in  choice. 
War,  death,  or  sickness  did  lay  siege  to  it ; 
Making  it  momentary  as  a  sound. 
Swift  as  a  shadow,  short  as  any  dream. 
Brief  as  the  lightning  in  the  collied  night, 
That,  in  a  spleen,  unfolds  both  heaven  and  earth, 
And  ere  a  man  hath  power  to  say, —  Behold! 
The  jaws  of  darkness  do  devour  it  up. 
So  quick  bright  things  come  to  confusion. 

Her.    If  then  true  lovers  have  been  ever  crossed. 
It  stands  as  an  edict  in  destiny. 
Then  let  us  teach  our  trial  patience. 
Because  it  is  a  customary  cross ; 
As  due  to  love,  as  thoughts,  and  dreams,  and  sighs, 
Wishes,  and  tears,  poor  fancy's  followers. 

Lys.    A  good  persuasion ;  therefore,  hear  me,  Herraia 
I  have  a  widow  aunt,  a  dowager 
Of  great  revenue,  and  she  hath  no  child. 
From  Athens  is  her  house  remote  seven  leagues; 
And  she  respects  me  as  her  only  son. 


Act  r.]  MIDSUMMER-MGHT'S  DREAM.  397 

There,  gentle  Hermia,  may  I  marry  thee : 
And  to  that  place  the  sharp  Athenian  law 
Cannot  pursue  us.     If  thou  lov'st  me  then, 
Steal  forth  thy  father's  house  to-morrow  night ; 
And  in  the  wood,  a  league  without  the  town, 
Where  I  did  meet  thee  once  with  Helena, 
To  do  observance  to  a  morn  of  May, 
There  will  I  stay  for  ^hee. 

Her.  My  good  Lysander  ! 

I  swear  to  thee,  by  Cupid's  strongest  bow ; 
By  his  best  arrow,  with  the  golden  head ; 
By  the  simplicity  of  Venus'  doves ; 
By  that  which  knitteth  souls,  and  prospers  loves; 
And  by  that  fire  which  burned  the  Carthage  queen, 
When  the  false  Trojan  under  sail  was  seen ; 
By  all  the  vows  that  ever  men  have  broke. 
In  number  more  than  woman  ever  spoke ;  — 
In  that  same  place  thou  hast  appointed  me, 
To-morrow  truly  will  I  meet  with  thee. 

Lys.    Keep  promise,  love.     Look,  here  comes  Helena, 

Enter  Helen. 

Her.    God  speed  fair  Helena !     Whither  away  ? 

Hel.    Call  you  me  fair  ?     That  fair  again  unsay. 
Demetrius  loves  your  fair.   0  happy  fair ! 
Your  eyes  are  lode-stars ;  and  your  tongue's  sweet  air 
More  tunable  than  lark  to  shepherd's  ear. 
When  wheat  is  green,  when  hawthorn  buds  appear. 
Sickness  is  catching ;  0,  were  favor  so. 
Yours  would  I  catch,  fair  Hermia,  ere  I  go. 
My  ear  should  catch  your  voice,  my  eye  your  eye, 
My  tongue  should  catch  your  tongue's  sweet  melody. 
Were  the  world  mine,  Demetrius  being  bated, 
The  rest  I'll  give  to  be  to  you  translated. 
0,  teach  me  how  you  look  ;  and  with  what  art 
You  sway  the  motion  of  Demetrius'  heart. 

Her.    I  frown  upon  him,  yet  he  loves  me  still. 

Hel.    0  that  your  frowns  would  teach  my  smiles  such  skill ! 

Her.    I  give  him  curses,  yet  he  gives  me  love, — 

Hel.    0  that  my  prayers  could  such  aifcction  move ! 

Her.    The  more  I  hate,  the  more  he  follows  me. 

Hel.    The  more  I  love,  the  more  he  hateth  me. 

Her.    His  folly,  Helena,  is  no  fault  of  mine. 

Hel.   None,  but  your  beauty.    '  Would  that  fault  were  mine ' 

Her.    Take  comfort ;  he  no  more  shall  see  my  face ; 
Lysander  and  myself  will  fly  this  place. — 
2i 


398  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  [Act  I. 

Before  the  time  I  did  Lysander  see, 
Seemed  Athens  like  a  paradise  to  me. 
0,  then,  ^Yllat  graces  in  my  love  do  dwell, 
That  he  hath  turned  a  heaven  unto  hell ! 

Lys.    Helen,  to  you  our  minds  we  will  unfold. 
To-morrow  night,  when  Phoebe  doth  behold 
Her  silver  visage  in  the  watery  glass. 
Decking  with  liquid  pearl  the  bladed  grass, 
(A  time  that  lovers'  flights  doth  still  conceal,) 
Through  Athens'  gates  have  we  devised  to  steal. 

Her.    And  in  the  wood,  where  often  you  and  1 
Upon  faint  primrose  beds  were  wont  to  lie. 
Emptying  our  bosoms  of  their  counsel  sweet, 
There  my  Lysander  and  myself  shall  meet. 
And  thence,  from  Athens,  turn  away  our  eyes, 
To  seek  new  friends  and  stranger  companies. 
Farewell,  sweet  playfellow ;  pray  thou  for  us. 
And  good  luck  grant  thee  thy  Demetrius ! 
Keep  word,  Lysander.     We  must  starve  our  sight 
From  lovers'  food,  till  morrow  deep  midnight. 

[Exit  Hermia. 

Lys.    I  will,  my  Hermia.  —  Helena,  adieu. 
As  you  on  him,  Demetrius  dote  on  you ! 

[Exit  Lysander. 

Hel.    How  happy  some  o'er  other  some  can  be ' 
Through  Athens  I  am  thought  as  fair  as  she. 
But  what  of  that  ?     Demetrius  thinks  not  so ; 
He  will  not  know  what  all  but  he  do  know. 
And  as  he  errs,  doting  on  Hermia's  eyes, 
So  I,   admiring  of  his  qualities. 
Things  base  and  vile,  holding  no  quantity. 
Love  c;tn  transpose  to  form  and  dignity. 
Love  looks  not  with  the  eyes,  but  Avith  the  mind. 
And  therefore  is  winged  Cupid  painted  blind. 
Nor  hath  love's  mind  of  any  judgment  taste; 
Wings,  and  no  eyes,  figure  unheedy  haste ; 
And  therefore  is  love  said  to  be  a  child, 
Because  in  choice  he  is  so  oft  beguiled. 
As  waggish  boys  in  game  themselves  forswear. 
So  the  boy  Love  is  perjured  every  where ; 
For  ere  Demetrius  looked  on  Hermia's  eyne. 
He  hailed  down  oaths,  that  he  was  only  mine ; 
And  Avhen  this  hail  some  heat  from  Hermia  felt. 
So  he  dissolved,  and  showers  of  oaths  did  melt. 
I  will  go  tell  him  of  fair  Hermia's  flight ; 
Then  to  the  wool  will  he,  to-morrow  night, 


A.CT  I.]  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  399 

Pursue  her ;  and  for  this  intelligence 

If  I  have  thanks,  it  is  a  dear  expense. 

But  herein  mean  I  to  enrich  my  pain, 

To  have  his  sight  thither  and  back  again.  [JSxit. 


SCENE  II.     The  same.     A  Room  in  a  Oottage. 

Enter  Snug,  Bottom,  Flute,  Snout,  Quince,  and 
Starveling. 

Quin.    Is  all  our  company  here? 

Bat.  You  were  best  to  call  them  generally,  man  by  man, 
according  to  the  scrip. 

Quin.  Here  is  the  scroll  of  every  man's  name,  which  is 
thought  fit,  through  all  Athens,  to  play  in  our  interlude  be- 
fore the  duke  and  duchess,  on  his  Avedding-day  at  night. 

Bot.  First,  good  Peter  Quince,  say  what  the  play  treats 
on ;  then  read  the  names  of  the  actors ;  and  so  grow  on  to 
a  point. 

Quin.  Marry,  our  play  is — The  moist  lamentable  comedy, 
and  most  cruel  death  of  Pyramus  and  Thisby. 

Bot.  A  very  good  piece  of  work,  I  assure  you,  and  a 
merry.  —  Now,  good  Peter  Quince,  call  forth  youi*  actors  by 
the  scroll.     Masters,  spread  yourselves. 

Quin.    Answer,  as  I  call  you. — Nick  Bottom,  the  weaver. 

Bot.    Ready.     Name  what  part  I  am  for,  and  proceed. 

Quin.    You,  Nick  Bottom,  are  set  down  for  Pyramus. 

Bot.    What  is  Pyramus  ?     A  lover,  or  a  tyrant  ? 

Quin.    A  lover,  that  kills  himself  most  gallantly  for  love 

Bot.  That  will  ask  some  tears  in  the  true  performing  of 
it.  If  I  do  it,  let  the  audience  look  to  their  eyes ;  I  will 
move  storms,  I  will  condole  in  some  measure.  To  the  rest, 
— Yet  my  chief  humor  is  for  a  tyrant ;  I  could  play  Erclea 
rarely,  or  a  part  to  tear  a  cat  in,  to  make  all  split. 

"The  raging  rocks. 
With  shivering  shocks, 
Shall  break  the  locks 

Of  prison  gates ; 
And  Phibbus'  car 
Shall  shine  from  far, 
And  make  and  mar 
The  foolish  fates." 

This  was  lofty  !  —  Now  name  the  rest  of  the  players.  — 
This  is  Ercles'  vein,  a  tyrant's  vein ;  a  lover  ia  more  con- 
doling. 


400  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  [Act  I 

Qut7i.    Francis  Flute,  the  bellows-mender. 

Flu.    Here,  Peter  Quince. 

Quin.    You  must  take  Thisby  on  you. 

Flu.    What  is  Thisby  ?     A  wandering  knight  ? 

Qum.    It  is  the  lady  that  Pyramus  must  love. 

Flu.  Nay,  faith,  let  me  not  play  a  woman  ;  I  have  a  beard 
coming. 

Quin.  That's  all  one ;  you  shall  play  it  in  a  mask,  and 
you  may  speak  as  small  as  you  will. 

Bot.  An  I  may  hide  my  face,  let  me  play  Thisby  too. 
I'll  speak  in  a  monstrous  little  voice,  —  Thisne,  Thisne  — 
Ah,  Pyramus,  my  lover  dear ;  thy  Thisby  dear  !  And  lady 
dear  ! 

Quin.  No,  no  ;  you  must  play  Pyramus;  and,  Flute,  you 
Thisby. 

Bot.    Well,  proceed. 

Quin.    Robin  Starveling,  the  tailor. 

Star.    Here,  Peter  Quince. 

Quin.  Kobin  Starveling,  you  must  play  Thisby's  mother. 
—  Tom  Snout,  the  tinker. 

Snout.    Here,  Peter  Quince. 

Quin.  You,  Pyramus's  father ;  myself,  Thisby's  father ; 
— Snug,  the  joiner,  you,  the  lion's  part: — and,  I  hope,  here 
is  a  play  fitted. 

Snug.  Have  you  the  lion's  part  written  ?  Pray  you,  if 
it  be,  give  it  me,  for  I  am  slow  of  study. 

Quin.  You  may  do  it  extempore,  for  it  is  nothing  but 
roaring. 

Bot.  Let  me  play  the  lion  too.  I  will  roar,  that  I  will 
do  any  man's  heart  good  to  hear  me ;  I  will  roar,  that  I 
will  make  the  duke  say,  Let  him  roar  again,  Let  him  roar 
again. 

Quin.    An  you  should  do  it  too  terribly,  you  would  fright" 
the  duchess  and  the  ladies,  that  they  would  shriek  ;  and  that 
were  enough  to  hang  us  all. 

All.    That  would  hang  us  every  mother's  son. 

Bot.  I  grant  you,  friends,  if  that  you  should  fright  the 
ladies  out  of  their  wits,  they  would  have  no  more  discretion 
but  to  hang  us ;  but  I  will  aggravate  my  voice  so,  that  I 
will  roar  you  as  gently  as  any  suckling  dove ;  I  will  roar 
you  an  'twere  any  nightingale. 

Quin.  You  can  play  no  part  but  Pyramus  ;  for  Pyramus 
is  a  sweet-faced  man,  a  proper  man,  as  one  shall  see  in  a 
summer's  day,  a  most  lovely,  gentleman-like  man ;  therefore 
you  must  needs  play  Pyramus. 


Act  II.]         MIDSUMMER-NIGKT'S  DREAM.  401 

Bot.  Well,  I  will  undertake  it.  "What  beard  were  I  best 
to  plaj  it  in  ? 

Quin.    Why,  wbat  you  will. 

Bot.  I  will  discharge  it  in  either  your  straw-colored  beard, 
your  orange-tawny  beard,  your  purple-in-grain  beard,  or 
your  French-crown-color  beard,  your  pei'fect  yellow. 

Quin.  Some  of  your  French  crowns  have  no  hair  at  all, 
and  then  you  will  play  bare-faced.  But,  masters,  here  are 
your  parts ;  and  I  am  to  entreat  you,  request  you,  and  de 
sire  you,  to  con  them  by  to-morrow  night,  and  meet  me  in 
the  palace  wood,  a  mile  without  the  town,  by  moon-light. 
There  will  we  rehearse ;  for  if  we  meet  in  the  city,  we  shall 
be  dogged  with  company,  and  our  devices  known.  In  the 
mean  time,  I  will  draw  a  bill  of  properties,  such  as  our  play 
wants.     I  pray  you,  fail  me  not. 

Bot.  We  will  meet ;  and  there  we  may  rehearse  more 
obscenely,  and  courageously.    Take  pains ;  be  perfect ;  adieu. 

Quin.    At  the  duke's  oak  we  meet. 

Bot.    Enough;  hold,  or  cut  bow-strings.  [Exeunt. 


ACT    II. 

SCENE  I.     A  Wood  near  Athens. 
Enter  a  Fairy  at  one  door,  and  Puck  at  another. 

Puck.    How  now,  spirit !  whither  wander  yoa  ? 
Fai.    Over  hill,  over  dale, 

Thorough  bush,  thorough  briar, 
Over  park,  over  pale. 

Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire. 
I  do  wander  everywhere, 
Swifter  than  the  moones  sphere ; 
And  I  serve  the  fairy  queen, 
To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  green. 
The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  be; 
In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see; 
Those  be  rubies,  fairy  favors; 
In  those  freckles  live  their  savors. 
I  must  go  seek  some  dew-drops  here, 
And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 
Farewell,  thou  lob  of  spirits,  I'll  be  gone; 
Our  queen  and  all  her  elves  come  here  anoa. 
Vol.  I.  — 26  2i* 


402  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DEEAM.         [Act  Tl 

Puck.    The  king  doth  keep  his  revels  here  to-night. 
Take  hoed  tlie  queen  come  not  -within  his  sight, 
For  Oberon  is  passing  fell  and  wrath, 
Because  that  she,  as  her  attendant,  hath 
A  lovely  boy,  stolen  from  an  Indian  king. 
She  never  had  so  sweet  a  changeling ; 
And  jealous  Oberon  would  have  the  child 
Knight  of  his  train,  to  trace  the  forest  wild. 
But  she,  perforce,  withholds  the  loved  boy. 
Crowns  him  with  flowers,  and  makes  him  all  her  joy; 
And  noAV  they  never  meet  in  grove,  or  green. 
By  fountain  clear,  or  spangled  star-light  sheen. 
But  they  do  square ;  that  all  their  elves,  for  fear, 
Creep  into  acorn  cups,  and  hide  them  there. 

Fai.    Either  I  mistake  your  shape  and  making  quite, 
Or  else  you  are  that  shrewd  and  knavish  sprite, 
Called  Robin  Good-fellow.     Are  you  not  he, 
That  fright  the  maidens  of  the  villagery ; 
Skim  milk ;  and  sometimes  labor  in  the  quern. 
And  bootless  make  the  breathless  housewife  churn ; 
And  sometime  make  the  drink  to  bear  no  barm  ; 
Mislead  night-wanderers,  laughing  at  their  harm  ? 
Those  that  Hobgoblin  call  you,  and  sweet  Puck, 
You  do  their  work ;  and  they  shall  have  good  luck. 
Are  not  you  he  ? 

Puck.  Thou  speak'st  aright ; 

I  am  that  merry  wanderer  of  the  night. 
I  jest  to  Oberon,  and  make  him  smile. 
When  I  a  fat  and  bean-fed  horse  beguile. 
Neighing  in  likeness  of  a  filly  foal ; 
And  sometime  lurk  I  in  a  gossip's  bowl. 
In  very  likeness  of  a  roasted  crab ; 
And,  when  she  drinks,  against  her  lips  I  bob, 
And  on  her  withered  dew-lap  pour  the  ale. 
The  wisest  aunt,  telling  the  saddest  tale. 
Sometime  for  three-foot  stool  mistaketh  me : 
Then  slip  I  from  her  bum,  down  topples  she, 
And  tailor  cries,  and  falls  into  a  cough ; 
And  then  the  whole  quire  hold  their  hips,  and  loffe : 
And  yexen  in  their  mirth,  and  neeze,  and  swear 
A  merrier  hour  was  never  wasted  there. — 
But  room,  Faery ;  here  comes  Oberon. 

Fai    And  here  my  mistress. — 'Would  that  he  were  gon3 ' 


Act  II.]         MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  403 


SCENE  XL 

Enter  Oberon,  at  one  door,  with  his  Train,  a7id  Titanla, 
at  another,  loith  hers. 

Ohe.    Ill  met  by  moon-light,  pi'ond  Titania. 

Tita.    What,  jealous  Oberon  ?     Fairy,  skip  hence ; 
I  have  forsworn  his  bed  and  company. 

Ohe.    Tarry,  rash  wanton.     Am  not  I  thy  lord? 

Tita.    Then  I  must  be  thy  lady.     But  I  know 
When  thou  hast  stolen  away  from  fairy  land, 
And  in  the  shape  of  Corin  sat  all  day, 
Playing  on  pipes  of  corn,  and  versing  love 
To  amorous  Phillida.     Why  art  thou  here, 
Come  from  the  farthest  steep  of  India  ? 
But  that,  forsooth,  the  bouncing  amazon, 
Your  buskined  mistress,  and  your  warrior  love, 
To  Theseus  must  be  wedd-ed ;  and  you  come 
To  give  their  bed  joy  and  prosperity. 

Obe.    How  canst  thou  thus,  for  shame,  Titania, 
Glance  at  my  credit  with  Hippolytxa, 
Knowing  I  know  thy  love  to  Theseus  ? 
Didst  thou  not  lead  him  through  the  glimmering  night 
From  Perigenia,  whom  he  ravished  ? 
And  make  him  with  fair  ^gle  break  his  faith, 
With  Ariadne,  and  Antiopa  ? 

Tita.    These  are  the  forgeries  of  jealousy ; 
And  never,  since  the  middle  summer's  spring. 
Met  we  on  hill,  in  dale,  forest,  or  mead. 
By  paved  fountain,  or  by  rushy  brook. 
Or  on  the  beached  margent  of  the  sea. 
To  dance  our  ringlets  to  the  Avhistling  wind, 
But  with  thy  braAvls  thou  hast  disturbed  our  sport. 
Therefore  the  Avinds,  piping  to  us  in  vain, 
As  in  revenge,  have  sucked  up  from  the  sea 
Contagious  fogs;  which,  falling  in  the  land. 
Have  every  pelting  river  made  so  proud, 
That  they  have  ovei'borne  their  continents. 
The  ox  hath  therefore  stretched  his  yoke  in  vain, 
The  ploughman  lost  his  sweat ;  and  the  green  corn 
Hath  rotted,  ere  his  youth  attained  a  beard. 
The  fold  stands  empty  in  the  drowned  field. 
And  crows  are  fatted  with  the  murrain  flock ; 
The  nine  men's  morris  is  filled  up  with  mud , 
And  the  qunint  mazes  in  the  wanton  green, 
For  lack  of  tread,  are  undistinguishable. 


404  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DEEAM.  [Act  H 

The  human  mortals  want  their  Avinter  here ; 

No  night  is  now  with  hymn  or  carol  hlcsse-i. 

Therefore  the  moon,  the  governess  of  floods, 

Pale  in  her  anger,  washes  all  the  air, 

That  rheumatic  diseases  do  abound; 

And  thorough  this  distempcrature,  we  see 

The  seasons  alter.     Hoary-headed  frosts 

Fall  in  the  fresh  lap  of  the  crimson  rose ; 

And  on  old  Hyems'  chin,  and  icy  crown, 

An  odorous  chaplet  of  sweet  summer  buds 

Is,  as  in  mockery,  set.     The  spring,  the  summer, 

The  childing  autumn,  angry  winter,  change 

Their  wonted  liveries ;  and  the  'mazed  world. 

By  their  increase,  now  knows  not  which  is  which: 

And  this  same  progeny  of  evils  comes 

From  our  debate,  from  our  dissension. 

We  are  their  parents  and  original. 

Ohe.    Do  you  amend  it,  then ;  it  lies  in  you. 
Why  should  Titania  cross  her  Oberon  ? 
I  do  but  beg  a  little  changeling  boy. 
To  be  my  henchman. 

Tita.  Set  your  heart  at  rest, 

The  fairy  land  buys  not  the  child  of  me. 
His  mother  was  a  vot'ress  of  my  order ; 
And,  in  the  spiced  Indian  air,  by  night. 
Full  often  hath  she  gossipped  by  my  side. 
And  sat  with  me  on  Neptune's  yellow  sands, 
Marking  the  embarked  traders  on  the  flood ; 
When  we  have  laughed  to  see  the  sails  conceive, 
And  grow  big-bellied  with  the  wanton  wind; 
Which  she,  with  pretty  and  with  swimming  gait 
Following,  (her  womb  then  rich  with  my  young  squire,) 
Would  imitate ;  and  sail  upon  the  land. 
To  fetch  me  trifles,  and  return  again. 
As  from  a  voyage,  rich  with  merchandise. 
But  she,  being  mortal,  of  that  boy  did  die ; 
And,  for  her  sake,  I  do  rear  up  her  boy ; 
And,  for  her  sake,  I  will  not  part  with  him. 

Ohe.    How  long  within  this  wood  intend  you  stay? 

Tita.    Perchance,  till  after  Theseus'  wedding-day. 
If  you  will  patiently  dance  in  our  round. 
And  see  our  moon-light  revels,  go  with  us; 
If  not,  shun  me,  and  I  will  spare  your  haunts. 

Ohe.    Give  me  that  boy,  and  I  will  go  with  thee. 

Tita.    Not  for  thy  fairy -kingdom.  —  Fairies,  away. 
We  shall  chide  down-right,  if  I  longer  stay. 

\_Exeunt  Titania  and  her  Train. 


Act  II.]         MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  405 

Ohe.    Well,  go  thy  way.    Thou  shalt  not  from  this  grove. 
Till  I  toi-ment  thee  for  this  injury. — 
My  gentle  Puck,  come  hither.     Thou  remember 'st 
Since  once  I  sat  upon  a  promontory, 
And  heard  a  mermaid,  on  a  dolphin's  back, 
Uttering  such  dulcet  and  harmonious  breath, 
That  the  rude  sea  grew  civil  at  her  song  ; 
And  certain  stars  shot  madly  from  their  spheres, 
To  hear  the  sea-maid's  music. 

Puck.  I  remember. 

Ohe.    That  very  time  I  saw,  (but  thou  could'st  not,) 
Flying  between  the  cold  moon  and  the  earth, 
Cupid  all  armed.     A  certain  aim  he  took 
At  a  fair  vestal,  throned  by  the  west ; 
And  loosed  his  love-shaft  smartly  from  his  bow. 
As  it  should  pierce  a  hundred  thousand  hearts ; 
But  I  might  see  young  Cupid's  fiery  shaft 
Quenched  in  the  chaste  beams  of  the  watery  moon ; 
And  the  imperial  vot'ress  passed  on, 
In  maiden  meditation,  fancy-free. 
Yet  marked  I  where  the  bolt  of  Cupid  fell. 
It  fell  upon  a  little  western  flower, — 
Before,  milk  white ;  now  purple  with  love's  wound. 
And  maidens  call  it  love-in-idleness. 
Fetch  me  that  flower ;  the  herb  I  showed  thee  once ; 
The  juice  of  it,  on  sleeping  eyelids  laid, 
Will  make  or  man  or  woman  madly  dote 
Upon  the  next  live  creature  that  it  sees. 
Fetch  me  this  herb ;  and  be  thou  hei*e  again, 
Ere  the  leviathan  can  swim  a  league. 

Puck.    I'll  put  a  girdle  round  about  the  earth 
In  forty  minutes.  [^Exit  PucK. 

Ohe.  Having  once  this  juice, 

I'll  watch  Titania  when  she  is  asleep. 
And  drop  the  liquor  of  it  in  her  eyes. 
The  next  thing  then  she  waking  looks  upon, 
(Be  it  on  lion,  bear,  or  wolf,  or  bull, 
On  meddling  monkey,  or  on  busy  ape,) 
She  shall  pursue  it  with  the  soul  of  love. 
And  ere  I  take  this  charm  oflF  from  her  sight, 
(As  I  can  take  it  with  another  herb,) 
I'll  make  her  render  up  her  page  to  me. 
But  who  comes  here?     I  am  invisible; 
And  I  will  overhear  their  confeience. 


406  MIDSUiMMKR-NIGIlT'S  DREAM.         [Act  11 

Enter  Demetkius,  Helena /o?Zowm^  him. 

Dem.    I  love  thee  not,  therefore  pursue  me  not. 
Where  is  Lysauder,  and  fair  liermia? 
The  one  I'll  slay,  the  other  slayeth  me. 
Thou  told'st  me,  they  "were  stolen  into  this  wood, 
And  here  am  I,  and  wood  within  this  wood. 
Because  I  cannot  meet  with  Hermia. 
Hence,  get  thee  gone,  and  follow  me  no  more. 

Mel.    You  draw  me,  you  hard-hearted  adamant ; 
But  yet  you  draw  not  iron,  for  my  heart 
Is  true  as  steel.     Leave  you  your  power  to  draw, 
And  I  shall  have  no  power  to  follow  you. 

De77i     Do  I  entice  you  ?     Do  I  speak  you  fair  'i 
Or  rather,  do  I  not  in  plainest  truth 
Tell  you  —  I  do  not,  nor  I  cannot  love  you? 

IleL    And  even  for  that  do  I  love  you  the  more. 
I  am  your  spaniel ;  and,  Demetrius, 
The  more  you  beat  me,  I  will  fawn  on  you. 
Use  me  but  as  your  spaniel,  spurn  me,  strike  me, 
Neglect  me,  lose  me ;  only  give  me  leave. 
Unworthy  as  I  am,  to  follow  you. 
What  worser  place  can  I  beg  in  your  love, 
(And  yet  a  place  of  high  respect  with  me,) 
Than  to  be  used  as  you  do  your  dog  ? 

De7n.    Tempt  not  too  much  the  hatred  of  my  spirit ; 
For  I  am  sick  when  I  do  look  on  thee. 

ITel.    And  I  am  sick  when  I  look  not  on  you. 

Dem.    You  do  impeach  your  modesty  too  much, 
To  leave  the  city,  and  commit  yourself 
Into  the  hands  of  one 'that  loves  you  not; 
To  trust  the  opportunity  of  night, 
And  the  ill  counsel  of  a  desert  place. 
With  the  rich  worth  of  your  virginity. 

IleL    Your  virtue  is  my  privilege  for  that. 
It  is  not  night  when  I  do  see  your  face ; 
Therefore  I  think  I  am  not  in  the  night : 
Nor  doth  this  wood  lack  worlds  of  company ; 
For  you,  in  my  respect,  are  all  the  world. 
Then  how  can  it  be  said,  I  am  alone. 
When  all  the  world  is  here  to  look  on  me  ? 

Dem.    I'll  run  from  thee,  and  hide  me  in  the  brakes, 
And  leave  thee  to  the  mercy  of  wild  beasts. 

Hel.    The  wildest  hath  not  such  a  heart  as  you. 
Run  when  you  will,  the  story  shall  be  changed ; 
Apollo  flies,  and  Daphne  holds  the  chase. 


ACT  II.]         MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DEEAM.  407 

The  dove  pi;i-sues  the  grifBn  ;  the  mild  hind 
Makes  speed  to  catch  the  tiger.     Bootless  speed ! 
When  cowardice  pursues,  and  valor  flies. 

Dem.    I  will  not  stay  thy  questions.     Let  tne  go ; 
Or,  if  thou  follow  me,  do  not  believe 
But  I  shall  do  thee  mischief  in  the  wood. 

Hel.    Ay,  in  the  temple,  in  the  town,  the  field, 
You  do  me  mischief.     Fie,  Demetrius ! 
Your  wrongs  do  set  a  scandal  on  my  sex. 
We  cannot  fight  for  love,  as  men  may  do : 
We  should  be  wooed,  and  were  not  made  to  woo. 
I'll  follow  thee,  and  make  a  heaven  of  hell. 
To  die  upon  the  hand  I  love  so  well. 

[_Exeunt  Dem.  and  Hel 

Ohe.  I'are  thee  well,  nymph.    Ere  he  do  leave  this  grove. 
Thou  shalt  fly  him,  and  he  shall  seek  thy  love. 

Re-enter  Puck. 
Hast  thou  the  flower  there  ?     Welcome,  wanderei*. 

Puck.    Ay,  there  it  is. 

Obe.  I  pray  thee,  give  it  me. 

I  know  a  bank  whereon  the  mild  thyme  blows, 
Where  ox-lips  and  the  nodding  violet  grows ; 
Quite  over-canopied  with  luscious  woodbine. 
With  sweet  musk-roses,  and  with  eglantine. 
There  sleeps  Titania,  some  time  of  the  night. 
Lulled  in  these  flowers  with  dances  and  delight ; 
And  there  the  snake  throws  her  enamelled  skin, 
Weed  wide  enough  to  wrap  a  fairy  in : 
And  with  the  juice  of  this  I'll  streak  her  eyes, 
And  make  her  full  of  hateful  fantasies. 
Take  thou  some  of  it,  and  seek  through  this  grove. 
A  sweet  Athenian  lady  is  in  love 
With  a  disdainful  youth :   anoint  his  eyes ; 
But  do  it,  when  the  next  thing  he  espies 
May  be  the  lady.     Thou  shalt  know  the  man 
By  the  Athenian  garments  he  hath  on. 
Effect  it  with  some  care,  that  he  may  prove 
More  fond  on  her,  than  she  upon  her  love ; 
And  look  thou  meet  me  ere  the  first  cock  crow. 

Puck.  Fear  not,  my  lord,  your  servant  shall  do  so.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  III.     A7iother  Part  of  the  Wood. 
Enter  Titania,  with  her  Train. 
Tita.    Come,  now  a  roundel,  and  a  fairy  song, 
Then,  for  the  third  part  of  a  minute,  hence ; 


408  MIDSUMMEK-NIGIIT'S  DllEAM.         [Act  IT 

Some,  to  kill  cankers  in  the  musk-rose  buds ; 
Some,  war  with  rear-mice  for  their  leathern  wings. 
To  make  my  small  elves  coats ;  and  some,  keep  back 
The  clamorous  owl,  that  nightly  hoots,  and  wonders 
At  our  quaint  spirits.     Sing  me  now  asleep ; 
Then  to  your  offices,  and  let  me  rest. 

SONG. 

1  Fai.    You  spotted  snakes,  with  double  tongue, 

Thorny  hedge-hogs,  be  not  seen; 
Newts,  and  blindworms,  do  no  wrong ; 
Come  not  near  our  fairy  queen. 

Chorus.   Philomel,  with  melody, 

Sing  in  our  sweet  lullaby ; 
Lulla,  lulla,  lullaby;  lulla,  lulla,  lullaby; 
Never  harm,  nor  spell  nor  charm. 
Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh; 
So,  good  night,  with  lullaby. 

II. 

2  Fai.    Weaving  spiders,  come  not  here ; 

Hence,  you  long-legg'd  Sjnnners,  hence. 
Beetles  black,  approach  not  near; 
Worm,  nor  snail,  do  no  offence. 

Chorus.   Philomel,  with  melody,  ^-c. 

1  Fai.    Hence,  away ;  now  all  is  well. 
One,  aloof,  stand  sentinel. 

\_Fxeu7it  Fairies.     Titania  sleeps. 

Enter  Oberon. 

Obe.    What  thou  seest  when  thou  dost  wake, 

\_Squeezes  the  flower  on  Titania's  eyelids. 
Do  it  for  thy  true  love  take. 
Love,  and  languish  for  his  sake. 
Be  it  ounce,  or  cat,  or  bear, 
Pard,  or  boar  with  bristled  hair. 
In  thy  eye  that  shall  appear 
When  thou  wak'st,  it  is  thy  dear. 
Wake,  when  some  vile  thing  is  near.  \^Exit. 

Enter  Lysander  arid  Hermia. 

Lys.    Fair  love,  you  fjiint  with  wandering  in  the  wood ; 
And  to  speak  troth,  I  have  forgot  our  way; 


Act  il.]         MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  409 

We'll  rest  us,  Hermia,  if  you  think  it  good, 
And  tarry  for  the  comfort  of  the  day.     . 

Her.   Be  it  so,  Lysander ;  find  you  out  a  bed, 
For  I  upon  this  bank  will  rest  my  head. 

Ly%.    One  turf  shall  serve  as  pillow  for  us  both; 
One  heart,  one  bed,  two  bosoms,  and  one  troth. 

Ser.    Nay,  good  Lysander ;  for  my  sake,  my  dear, 
Lie  farther  off  yet ;  do  not  lie  so  near. 

LyB.    0,  take  the  sense,  sweet,  of  my  innocence; 
Love  takes  the  meaning,  in  love's  conference. 
I  mean,  that  my  heart  unto  yours  is  knit ; 
So  that  but  one  heart  we  can  make  of  it. 
Two  bosoms  interchained  with  an  oath ; 
So  then,  two  bosoms,  and  a  single  troth. 
Then,  by  your  side  no  bed-room  me  deny; 
For,  lying  so,  Hermia,  I  do  not  lie. 

Her.    Lysander  riddles  very  prettily. — 
Now  much  beshrew  my  manners  and  my  pride, 
If  Hermia  meant  to  say,  Lysander  lied. 
But,  gentle  friend,  for  love  and  courtesy 
Lie  farther  off;  in  human  modesty 
Such  separation,   as,  may  well  be  said. 
Becomes  a  virtuous  bachelor  and  a  maid. 
So  far  be  distant ;  and  good  night,  sweet  friend. 
Thy  love  ne'er  alter,  till  thy  sweet  life  end ! 

Lys.    Amen,  amen,  to  that  fair  prayer,  say  I; 
And  then  end  life,  when  I  end  loyalty  ! 
Here  is  my  bed.     Sleep  give  thee  all  his  rest ! 

Her.    With  half  that  wish  the  wisher's  eyes  be  pressed ! 

\They  sleep. 

Miter  Puck. 

Puck.  Through  the  forest  have  I  gone, 
But  Athenian  found  I  none, 
On  whose  eyes  I  might  approve 
This  flower's  force  in  stirring  love. 
Night  and  silence  !     Who  is  here  ? 
Weeds  of  Athens  he  doth  wear. 
This  is  he,  my  master  said, 
Despised  the  Athenian  maid; 
And  here  the  maiden,  sleeping  sound 
On  the  dank  and  dirty  ground. 
Pretty  soul !  she  durst  not  lie 
Near  this  lack-love,  this  kill-courtesy 
Churl,  upon  thy  eyes  I  throw 
All  the  power  this  charm  doth  owe. 
2k 


410  MlDSUiMMEll-NIGHT'S  DREAM.         [Act  11 

When  thou  wak'st,  let  love  forbul 

Sleep  .his  seat  on  thy  eyelid. 

So  awake,  "when  I  am  gone  ; 

For  I  must  now  to  Oberon.  \Exit 

Enter  Demetrius  and  Helena,  7'unning. 

Hel.    Stay,  though  thou  kill  me,  sweet  Demetrius. 

Dem.    I  charge  thee,  hence,  and  do  not  haunt  me  thus. 

Sel.    0,  wilt  thou  darkling  leave  me  ?     Do  not  so. 

Dem.    Stay,  on  thy  peril ;  I  alone  will  go. 

\_Exit  Demetrius 

Hel.    0,  I  am  out  of  breath  in  this  fond  chase ! 
The  more  my  prayer,  the  lesser  is  my  grace. 
Happy  is  Hermia,  wheresoe'er  she  lies ; 
For  she  hath  blessed  and  attractive  eyes. 
How  came  her  eyes  so  bright  ?     Not  with  salt  tears ; 
If  so,  my  eyes  are  oftener  washed  than  hers. 
No,  no,  I  am  as  ugly  as  a  bear ; 
For  beasts  that  meet  me,  run  away  for  fear 
Therefore,  no  marvel,  though  Demetrius 
Do,  as  a  monster,  fly  my  presence  thus. 
What  wicked  and  dissembling  glass  of  mine 
Made  me  compare  with  Hermia's  sphery  eyne  ? 
But  who  is  here  ?  —  Lysander  !     On  the  ground  ! 
Dead  ?     Or  asleep  ?     I  see  no  blood,  no  wound. 
Lysander,  if  you  live,  good  sir,  awake. 

Lys.    And  run  through  fire  I  will,  for  thy  sweet  sake. 

[  Waking 
Transparent  Helena  !     Nature  shows  her  art, 
Tliat  through  thy  bosom  makes  me  see  thy  heart. 
VYhere  is  Demetrius  ?     0,  how  fit  a  word 
Is  that  vile  name  to  perish  on  my  sword ! 

Hel.    Do  not  say  so,  Lysander ;  say  not  so. 
What  though  he  love  your  Hermia  ?     Lord,  what  though  V 
Yet  Hermia  still  loves  you,  then  be  content. 

Lys.    Content  with  Hermia  ?     No.     I  do  repent 
The  tedious  minutes  I  with  her  have  spent. 
Not  Hermia,  but  Helena  now  I  love. 
Who  will  not  change  a  raven  for  a  dove? 
The  will  of  man  is  by  this  reason  swayed; 
And  reason  says  you  are  the  worthier  maid. 
Things  growmg  are  not  ripe  until  their  season: 
So,  I,  being  young,  till  now  ripe  not  to  reason; 
And  touching  now  the  point  of  human  skill, 
Reason  ^becomes  the  marshal  to  my  will. 


A-CT  n  ]         MIDSU3IMEIl-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  ill 

And  leads  me  to  your  eyes ;  where  I  o'erlook 
Love's  stories  wi'itten  in  love's  richest  book. 

Hel.    Wherefore  was  I  to  this  keen  mockery  born? 
When,  at  your  hands,  did  I  deserve  this  scorn  ? 
Is't  not  enough,  is't  not  enough,  young  man, 
That  I  did  never,  no,  nor  never  can. 
Deserve  a  sweet  look  from  Demetrius'  eye. 
But  you  must  flout  my  insufficiency  ? 
Good  troth,  you  do  me  wrong,  good  sooth,  you  do. 
In  such  disdainful  manner  me  to  woo. 
But  fare  you  well.     Perforce  I  must  confess, 
I  thought  you  lord  of  more  true  gentleness. 
0,  that  a  lady,  of  one  man  refused. 
Should  of  another,  therefore,  be  abused !  [Exit 

Lys.    She  sees  not  Hermia  !  —  Hermia,  sleep  thou  there, 
And  never  mayst  thou  come  Lysander  near ! 
For,  as  a  surfeit  of  the  sweetest  things 
The  deepest  loathing  to  the  stomach  brings ; 
Or,  as  the  heresies,  that  men  do  leave. 
Are  hated  most  of  those  they  did  deceive ; 
So  thou,  my  surfeit,  and  my  heresy, 
Of  all  be  hated ;  but  the  most  of  me ! 
And  all  my  powers,  address  your  love  and  might, 
To  honor  Helen,  and  to  be  her  knight !  [Exit. 

Her.    [Starting.~\    Help  me,  Lysander,  help  me !    Do  thy 
best 
To  pluck  this  crawling  serpent  from  my  breast ! 
Ah  me,  for  pity  !  —  What  a  dream  was  here  1 
Lysander,  look,  how  I  do  quake  with  fear. 
Methought  a  serpent  ate  my  heart  away, 
And  you  sat  smiling  at  his  cruel  prey. — 
Lysander  !     What,  removed  ?     Lysander  !     Lord  ! 
What,  out  of  hearing  ?     Gone  ?     No  sound,  no  word  ? 
Alack,  where  are  you  ?     Speak,  an  if  you  hear, 
Speak,  of  all  loves ;  I  swoon  almost  with  fear. 
No  ?  —  Then  I  well  perceive  you  are  not  nigh. 
Either  death,  or  you,  I'll  find  immediately.  [Exit 


412  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM..       [Act  III 


ACT    III. 

i^CENE  I.    The  same.    The  Queen  of  Fairies  lying  asleep. 

Enter  Quince,  Snug,  Bottom,  Flute,  Snout,  and 
Starveling. 

Bot.  Are  we  all  met? 

Quin.  Pat,  pat ;  and  here's  a  marvellous  convenient  place 
for  our  rehearsal.  This  green  plot  shall  be  our  stage,  this 
hawthorn  brake  our  tyring-house  ;  and  we  will  do  it  in  action, 
as  we  will  do  it  before  the  duke. 

Bot.    Peter  Quince, — 

Quin.    What  say'st  thou,  bully  Bottom  ? 

Bot.  There  are  things  in  this  comedy  of  Pyramus  and 
Thishy,  that  will  never  please.  First,  Pyramus  must  draw 
a  sword  to  kill  himself;  which  the  ladies  cannot  abide.  How 
answer  you  that  ? 

Snout.    By'rlakin,  a  parlous  fear. 

iStar.  I  believe  we  must  leave  the  killing  out,  when  all  is 
done 

Bot.  Not  a  whit ;  I  have  a  device  to  make  all  well.  Write 
me  a  prologue ;  and  let  the  prologue  seem  to  say,  we  will  do 
no  harm  Avith  our  swords ;  and  that  Pyramus  is  not  killed 
indeed ;  and  for  the  more  better  assurance,  tell  them  that  1 
Pyramus  am  not  Pyramus,  but  Bottom  the  weaver.  This 
will  put  them  out  of  fear. 

Quin.  Well,  we  will  have  such  a  prologue ;  and  it  shall 
be  written  in  eight  and  six. 

Bot.  No,  make  it  two  more  ;  let  it  be  written  in  eight  and 
eight. 

Snout.    Will  not  the  ladies  be  afeard  of  the  lion? 

Star.    I  fear  it,  I  promise  you. 

Bot.  Masters,  you  ought  to  consider  with  yourselves.  To 
bring  in  —  God  shield  us  !  —  a  lion  among  ladies,  is  a  most 
dreadful  thing  ;  for  there  is  not  a  more  fearful  wild-fowl  than 
your  lion,  living ;  and  we  ought  to  look  to  it. 

Snout.  Therefore,  another  prologue  must  tell,  he  is  not 
a  lion. 

Bot.  Nay,  you  must  name  his  name,  and  half  his  face 
must  be  seen  through  the  lion's  neck ;  and  he  himself  must 
speak  through,  saying  thus,  or  to  the  same  defect, — Ladies, 
or  fair  ladies,  I  would  wish  you,  or,  I  would  request  you, 
or,  I  would  entreat  you,  not  U  fear,  not  to  tremble :  my  life 
for  yours.     If  you  think  I  come  hither  as  a  lion,  it  were 


A.CTIII.]        MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  413 

pity  of  my  life.  No,  I  am  no  such  thing ;  I  am  a  man  aa 
other  men  are. — And  there,  indeed,  let  him  name  his  name : 
and  tell  them  plainly  he  is  Snug  the  joiner. 

Quin.  Well,  it  shall  be  so.  But  there  is  two  hard  things ; 
that  is,  to  bring  the  moonlight  into  a  chamber ;  for  you 
know,  Pyramus  and  Thisby  meet  by  moonlight. 

Snug.    Doth  the  moon  shine  that  night  we  play  our  play  ? 

Bot.  A  calendar,  a  calendar  !  Look  in  the  almanac  ;  find 
out  moon-shine,  find  out  moon-shine. 

Quin.    Yes,  it  doth  shine  that  night. 

Bot.  Why,  then  you  may  leave  a  casement  of  the  great 
chamber  window,  where  we  play,  open ;  and  the  moon  may 
shine  in  at  the  casement. 

Quin.  Ay ;  or  else  one  must  come  in  with  a  bush  of 
thorns  and  a  lanthorn,  and  say,  he  comes  to  disfigure,  or  to 
present,  the  pei'son  of  moon-shine.  Then,  there  is  another 
thing.  We  must  have  a  wall  in  the  great  chamber ;  for 
Pyramus  and  Thisby,  says  the  story,  did  talk  through  the 
chink  of  a  wall. 

Snug.  You  never  can  bring  in  a  wall. — What  say  you. 
Bottom  ? 

Bot.  Some  man  or  other  must  present  wall :  and  let  him 
have  some  plaster,  or  some  loam,  or  some  rough-cast  about 
him,  to  signify  wall ;  or  let  him  hold  his  fingers  thus,  and 
through  that  cranny  shall  Pyramus  and  Thisby  whisper. 

Quin.  If  that  may  be,  then  all  is  well.  Come,  sit  down, 
every  mother's  son,  and  rehearse  your  parts.  Pyramus,  you 
begin.  When  you  have  spoken  your  speech,  enter  into  that 
brake,  and  so  every  one  according  to  his  cue. 

Unter  Puck  behind. 

PueJc.  What  hempen  home-spuns  have  we  swaggering  here 
So  near  the  cradle  of  the  fairy  queen  ? 
What,  a  play  toward?     I'll  be  an  auditor; 
An  actor,  too,  perhaps,  if  I  see  cause. 

Quin.    Speak,  Pyramus. — Thisby,  stand  forth. 

Pyr.    Thishy,  the  floiver  of  odious  savors  siveet, — 

Quin.    Odors,  odors. 

Pyr.    odors  savors  fweet: 

So  hath  thy  breath,  my  dearest  Thisby  dear. — 
But,  hark,  a  voice !     Stay  thou  but  here  awhile, 

And  by  and  by  I  will  to  thee  appear.  [Exit. 

Puck.    A  stranger  Pyramus  than  ere  played  here ! 

\_Aside. — Exit 

This.    Must  I  speak  now? 

Quin.    Ay,  marry,  must  you;  for  you  mist  understand, 
2k* 


414  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.        [Act  III 

he  goes  but  to  see  a  noise  that  he  heard,  and  is  to  come 
again. 

This.    Most  radiant  Pyramm,  most  lilu-wliite  of  hue. 

Of  color  like  the  red  rose  on  triumphant  brier, 
Most  hrisky  juvenal,  and  eke  most  lovely  Jew, 

As  trice  as  truest  horse,  that  yet  would  never  tire, 
Til  meet  thee,  Pyramus,  at  Niyiny's  tomb. 

Quin.  Ninus'  tomb,  man.  Whj,  you  must  not  speak  that 
yet ;  that  you  answer  to  Pyramus.  You  speak  all  your  part 
at  once,  cues  and  all.  —  Pyramus,  enter ;  your  cue  is  past ; 
it  is,  never  tire. 

Re-enter  Puck,  and  Bottom,  tvith  an  ass's  head. 

This.    0 — As  true  as  truest  horse,  that  yet  would  never 
tire. 

Pyr.    If  I  were  fair,   Thisby,  I  were  only  thine. — 

Quin.    0  monstrous  !   0  strange !  we  are  haunted. 
Pray,  masters!  fly,  masters!  help!  \_Exeunt  Clowns. 

Puck.    I'll  follow  you,  I'll  lead  you  about  a  round, 

Through  bog,  through  bush,  through  brake,  through  brier : 
Sometime  a  horse  I'll  be,  sometime  a  hound, 

A  hog,  a  headless  bear,  sometime  a  fire ; 
And  neigh,  and  bark,  and  grunt,  and  roar,  and  burn. 
Like  horse,  hound,  hog,  bear,  fire,  at  every  turn.        [^Exit. 

Bot.  Why  do  they  run  away?  This  is  a  knavery  of 
them,  to  make  me  afeard. 

Re-enter  Snout. 

Snout.  0  Bottom,  thou  art  changed !  What  do  I  see  on 
thee  ? 

Bot.  What  do  you  see  ?  You  see  an  ass's  head  of  your 
own  ;  do  you  ? 

Re-enter  Quince. 

Qtiin.  Bless  thee,  Bottom  !  Bless  thee  !  Thou  art  trans- 
lated. ^  lExit. 

Bot.  I  see  their  knavery !  This  is  to  make  an  ass  of 
me ;  to  fright  me,  if  they  could.  But  I  will  not  stir  from 
this  place,  do  what  they  can.  I  will  walk  up  and  down  here, 
and  I  will  sing,  that  they  shall  hear  I  am  not  afraid.     \_Sing8 

The  ousel-cock,  so  black  of  hue. 

With  orange-tawny  bill, 
The  throstle  with  his  note  sc  true, 

Tlie  wren  with  little  quill. 


Act  III.]        MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  415 

Tita.    What  angel  wakes  me  from  my  flowery  bed  ? 

[  Waking. 
Bot.  TJie  fincTi,  the  sparroio,  and  the  larTc, 
The  plain-song  cuckoo  gray, 
WJtose  note  full  many  a  man  doth  marl\ 
And  dares  not  answer,  nay ; 

for,  indeed,  who  would  set  his  wit  to  so  foolish  a  bird  ? 
Who  would  give  a  bird  the  lie,  though  he  cry  cuckoo,  ever  so  ? 

Tita.    I  pray  thee,  gentle  mortal,  sing  again. 
Mine  ear  is  much  enamored  of  thy  note ; 
So  is  mine  eye  enthralled  to  thy  shape  ; 
And  thy  fair  virtue's  force  perforce  doth  move  me, 
On  the  first  view,  to  say,  to  swear,  I  love  thee. 

Bot.  Methinks,  mistress,  you  should  have  little  reason 
for  that ;  and  yet,  to  say  the  truth,  reason  and  love  keep 
little  company  together  nowadays.  The  more  the  pity,  that 
some  honest  neighbors  will  not  make  them  friends.  Nay,  I 
can  gleek  upon  occasion. 

Tita.    Thou  art  as  wise  as  thou  art  beautiful. 

Bot.  Not  so,  neither  ;  but  if  I  had  wit  enough  to  get  out 
of  this  wood,  I  have  enough  to  serve  mine  own  turn. 

Tita.    Out  of  this  wood  do  not  desire  to  go ; 
Thou  shalt  remain  here,  whether  thou  wilt  or  no. 
I  am  a  spirit  of  no  common  rate ; 
The  summer  still  doth  tend  upon  my  state, 
And  I  do  love  thee:  therefore,  go  with  me; 
I'll  give  thee  fairies  to  attend  on  thee ; 
And  they  shall  fetch  thee  jewels  from  the  deep; 
4-nd  sing,  while  thou  on  pressed  flowers  dost  sleep. 
And  I  will  purge  thy  mortal  grossness  so. 
That  thou  shalt  like  an  airy  spirit  go. — ■ 
I'cas-blossom  !  Cobweb  !  Moth  !  and  Mustard-seed ! 

Enter  four  Fairies. 

1  Fai.    Ready. 

2  Fai.  And  I. 

3  Fai.  And  I. 

4  Fai.  And  I. 
AIL    Were  shall  we  go  ? 

Tita.    Be  kind  and  courteous  to  this  gentleman ; 
Hop  in  his  v.aiks,  and  gambol  in  his  eyes ; 
Feed  him  with  aprioocks  and  dewberries. 
With  purple  grapes,  green  figs,  and  mulberries  ; 
The  honey-biigs  steal  from  the  humble-bees, 
And,  for  night  tapers,  crop  their  waxen  thighs, 
A.nd  light  them  at  the  fiery  glow-worm's  eyes, 


416  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.        [Act  IIL 

To  have  my  love  to  bed  and  to  arise ; 
And  pluck  the  Avings  from  painted  butterflies, 
To  fan  the  moonbeams  from  his  sleeping  eyes. 
Nod  to  him,  elves,  and  do  him  courtesies. 

1  Fai.    Hail,  mortal ! 

2  Fid.  Hail! 
2,  Fai.  Hail! 
4:  Fai    Hail! 

Bot.  I  cry  your  worship's  mercy,  heartily.  —  I  beseech 
your  worship's  name? 

Coh.    Cobweb. 

Bot.  I  shall  desire  you  of  more  acquaintance,  good  mas- 
ter Cobweb.  If  I  cut  my  finger,  I  shall  make  bold  with 
you.  -  -  Your  name,  honest  gentleman  ? 

Peas.    Peas-blossom. 

Bot.  I  pray  you,  commend  me  to  mistress  Squash,  your 
mother,  and  to  master  Peascod,  your  father.  Gcod  master 
Peas-blossom,  I  shall  desire  you  of  more  acquaintance  too. — 
Y  cur  name,  I  beseech  you,  sir  ? 

3Ius.    Mustard-seed. 

Bot.  Good  master  Mustard-seed,  I  know  your  patience 
well.  That  same  cowardly,  giant-like  ox-beef  hath  devoured 
many  a  gentleman  of  your  house.  I  promise  you,  your  kin- 
dred hath  made  my  eyes  water  ere  now.  I  desire  you  more 
acquaintance,  good  master  Mustard-seed. 

Tita.    Come,  wait  upon  him  ;  lead  him  to  my  bower. 

The  moon  methinks  looks  with  a  watery  eye ; 
And  when  she  weeps,  weeps  every  little  flower. 

Lamenting  some  enforced  chastity. 

Tie  up  my  lover's  tongue ;  bring  him  silently.     [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.     Another  Fart  of  the  Wood. 

Enter  Oberon. 

Ohen    I  wonder  if  Titania  be  awaked ; 
Then,  what  it  was  that  next  came  in  her  eye 
Which  she  must  dote  on  in  extremity. 

Enter  Puck. 

Here  comes  my  messenger.  —  How  now,  mad  spirit ! 
What  night-rule  now  about  this  haunted  grove  ? 

Puck.    My  mistress  with  a  monster  is  in  love. 
Near  to  her  close  and  consecrated  bower, 
While  she  was  in  her  dull  and  sleeping  hour, 
A  crew  of  patches,  rude  mechanicals, 


AcTin]       MIDSUM31ER  NIGHT'S  DREAM.  417 

That  work  for  bread  upon  Athenian  stalls, 

Were  met  together  to  rehearse  a  play, 

Intended  for  great  Theseus'  nuptial  day. 

The  shallowest  thick-skin  of  that  barren  sort, 

Who  Pyramus  presented,  in  their  sport 

Forsook  his  scene,  and  entered  in  a  brake; 

When  I  did  him  at  this  advautag-e  take. 

An  ass  s  nowl  I  fixed  on  his  head ; 

Anon,  his  Thisbe  must  be  answered. 

And  forth  my  mimic  comes.     When  they  him  spy, 

As  wild  geese  that  the  creeping  fowler  eye, 

Or  russet-pated  choughs,  many  in  sort. 

Rising  and  cawing  at  the  gun's  report, 

Sever  themselves,  and  madly  sweep  the  sky, 

So,  at  his  sight,  away  his  fellows  fly : 

And,  at  our  stamp,  here  o'er  and  o'er  one  falls , 

He  murder  cries,  and  help  from  Athens  calls. 

Their  sense,  thus  weak,  lost  with  their  fears,  thus  strong, 

Made  senseless  things  begin  to  do  them  wrong ; 

For  briers  and  thorns  at  their  apparel  snatch ; 

Some,  sleeves ;  some,  hats ;  from  yielders  all  things  catch. 

I  led  them  on  in  this  distracted  fear. 

And  left  sweet  Pyramus  translated  there ; 

When,  in  that  moment,  (so  it  came  to  pass,) 

Titania  waked,  and  straightway  loved  an  ass. 

Obe.    This  falls  out  better  than  I  could  devise 
But  hast  thou  yet  latched  the  Athenian's  eyes 
With  the  love-juice,  as  I  did  bid  thee  .do  ? 

Puck.    I  took  him  sleeping, —  that  is  finished,  too, — 
And  the  Athenian  woman  by  his  side ; 
That,  when  he  waked,  of  force  she  must  be  eyed. 

Enter  Demetrius  and  Hbrmia. 

Ohe.    Stand  close ;  this  is  the  same  Athenian. 

Puck.    This  is  the  woman,  but  not  this  the  man. 

Dem.    0,  why  rebuke  you  him  that  loves  you  so? 
Lay  breath  so  bitter  on  your  bitter  foe. 

Her.    Now  I  but  chide,  but  I  should  use  thee  worse; 
For  thou,  I  fear,  hast  given  me  cause  to  curse. 
If  thou  hast  slain  Lysander  in  his  sleep, 
Being  o'er  shoes  in  blood,  plunge  in  the  deep, 
And  kill  me  too. 

The  sun  was  not  so  true  unto  the  day. 
As  he  to  me.     Would  he  have  stolen  away 
From  sleeping  Hermia?     I'll  believe,  as  soon, 
This  whole  earth  may  be  bored,  and  that  the  moon 

Vol.  I.  —  27 


41S  MIDSOMMER-NIGHT-S  DREAM.       [Act  UI. 

May  tlirough  the  centre  creep,  and  so  displease 
Her  brother's  noontide  with  the  Antipodes. 
It  cannot  be,  but  thou  hast  murdered  him  : 
So  slioukl  a  murderer  look,  so  dead,  so  grim. 

Dem.    So  should  the  murdered  look ;  and  so  should  I, 
Pierced  through  the  heart  with  your  stern  cruelty. 
Yet  you,  the  nmrderer,  look  as  bright,  as  clear, 
As  3'ondor  Venus  in  her  glimmering  sphere. 

Her.    What's  this  to  my  Lysander  ?  wliei'e  is  he  ? 
Ah,  good  Demetrius,  wilt  thou  give  him  me  ? 

Dem.    I  had  rather  give  his  carcase  to  my  hounds. 

Her.    Out,  dog  !     Out,  cur !     Thou  driv'st  me  past  the 
bounds 
Of  maiden's  patience.     Hast  thou  slain  him,  then  ? 
Henceforth  be  never  numbered  among  men  ! 

0  !  once  tell  true,  tell  true,  even  for  my  sake. 
Durst  thou  have  looked  upon  him,  beng  awake. 
And  hast  thou  killed  him  sleeping  ?     0  brave  touch ! 
Could  not  a  w^orm,  an  adder,  do  so  much  ? 

An  adder  did  it ;  for  with  doubler  tongue 
Than  thine,  thou  serpent,  never  adder  stung. 

Dem.    You  spend  your  passion  on  a  misprised  mood. 

1  am  not  guilty  of  Lysander's  blood ; 
Nor  is  he  dead,  for  aught  that  I  can  tell. 

Her.    I  pray  thee,  tell  me  then  that  he  is  well. 

Dem.    An  if  I  could,  what  should  I  get  therefore? 

Her.    A  privilege,  never  to  see  me  more. — 
And  from  thy  hated  presence  part  I  so, — 
See  me  no  more,  whether  he  be  dead  or  no.  [Exit. 

Dem.    There  is  no  following  her  in  this  fierce  vein; 
Here,  therefore,  for  a  while  I  will  remain. 
So  sorrow's  heaviness  doth  heavier  grow. 
For  debt  that  bankrupt  sleep  doth  sorrow  owe ; 
Which  now,  in  some  slight  measure,  it  will  pay. 
If  for  his  tender  here  I  make  some  stay.        [Lies  down. 

Ohe.    What  hast  thou  done  ?     Thou  hast  mistaken  quite, 
And  laid  the  love-juice  on  some  true-love's  sight. 
Of  thy  misprision  must  perforce  ensue 
Some  true-love  turned,  and  not  a  false  turned  true. 

Puck.    Then  fate  o'errules ;  that,  one  man  holding  troth, 
A  million  fail,  confounding  oath  on  oath. 

Ohe.    About  the  wood  go  swifter  than  the  wind, 
And  Helena  of  Athens  look  thou  find. 
All  fancy-sick  she  is,  and  pale  of  cheer 
W^ith  sighs  of  love,  that  cost  the  fresh  blood  dear. 
Cy  some  illusion  see  thou  bring  her  here ; 
I'll  charm  his  eyes,  against  she  doth  appear. 


Act  111.]       MIDSUMMES-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  41f? 

Puck.    I  go,  I  go ;  look,  how  I  go ; 
Swifter  than  arrow  from  the  Tartar's  bow.  [Exit 

Obe.    Flower  of  this  purple  dye, 
Hit  with  Cupid's  archery. 
Sink  in  apple  of  his  eye ! 
When  his  love  he  doth  espy, 
Let  her  shine  as  gloriously 
As  the  Venus  of  the  sky. — 
When  thou  wak'st,  if  she  be  by, 
Beg  of  her  for  remedy. 

Re-enter  Puck. 

Puck.    Captain  of  our  fairy  band, 
Helena  is  here  at  hand ; 
And  the  youth  mistook  by  me, 
Pleading  for  a  lover's  fee. 
Shall  we  their  fond  pageant  see  ? 
Lord,  what  fools  these  mortals  be ! 

Obe.    Stand  aside ;  the  noise  they  make, 
Will  cause  Demetrius  to  awake. 

Puck.    Then  will  two  at  once  woo  one ; 
That  must  needs  be  sport  alone ; 
And  those  things  do  best  please  me. 
That  befall  preposterously. 

Enter  Lysander  and  Helena. 

Lys.    Why  should  you  think,  that  I  should  woo  in  scorn  ? 

Scorn  and  derision  never  come  in  tears. 
Look,  when  I  vow,  I  weep ;  and  vows  so  born 

In  their  nativity  all  truth  appears. 
How  can  these  things  in  me  seem  scorn  to  you. 
Bearing  the  badge  of  faith,  to  prove  them  true  ? 

Hel.    You  do  advance  your  cunning  more  and  more. 

When  truth  kills  truth,   0  devilish  holy  fray ! 
These  vows  are  Hermia's.     Will  you  give  her  o'er  ? 

Weigh  oath  with  oath,  and  you  will  nothing  weigh 
Your  vows  to  her  and  me,  put  in  two  scales. 
Will  even  weigh ;  and  both  as  light  as  tales. 

Lys.    I  had  no  judgment  when  to  her  I  swore. 

Hel    Nor  none,  in  my  mind,  now  you  give  her  o'er. 

Lys.    Demetrius  loves  her,  and  he  loves  not  you. 

Dem.    \_Awaking.'\     0   Helen,  goddess,  nymph,  perfect 
divine ! 
To  what,  my  love,  shall  I  compare  thine  eyne .' 
Crystal  is  muddy.     0,  how  ripe  in  show 
Thy  lips,  those  kissing  cherries,  tempting  grow ! 


420  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.       [Act  HI. 

That  pure  congealed  white,  high  Taurus'  snow, 
Fanned  with  the  eastern  wind,  turns  to  a  crow, 
When  thou  hold'st  up  thy  hand.     0  let  mo  kisa 
This  princess  of  pure  white,  this  seal  :f  bliss! 

HeJ.    0  spite !  0  hell !  I  see  you  all  are  bent 
To  set  against  me,  for  your  merriment. 
If  you  were  civil,  and  knew  courtesy. 
You  would  not  do  me  thus  much  injury. 
Can  you  not  hate  me,  as  I  know  you  do, 
But  you  must  join  in  souls  to  mock  me  too? 
If  you  were  men,  as  men  you  are  in  show. 
You  would  not  use  a  gentle  lady  so ; 
To  vow,  and  swear,  and  superpraise  my  parts, 
When,  I  am  sure,  you  hate  me  with  your  hearts. 
You  both  are  rivals,  and  love  Hermia ; 
And  now  both  rivals  to  mock  Helena — 
A  trim  exploit,  a  manly  enterprise. 
To  conjure  tears  up  in  a  poor  maid's  eyes, 
With  your  derision !     None  of  noble  sort 
Would  so  offend  a  virgin,  and  extort 
A  poor  soul's  patience,  all  to  make  you  sport. 

Lys.    You  are  unkind,  Demetrius ;  be  not  so  ; 
For  you  love  Hermia.     This,  you  know,  I  know, 
And  here,  with  all  good  will,  with  all  my  heart. 
In  Hermia's  love  I  yield  you  up  my  part ; 
And  yours  of  Helena  to  me  bequeath, 
Whom  I  do  love,  and  will  do  to  my  death. 

Hel.    Never  did  mockers  waste  more  idle  breath. 

Dem.    Lysander,  keep  thy  Hermia ;  I  will  none : 
If  e'er  I  loved  her,  all  that  love  is  gone. 
My  heart  with  her  but  as  guest-wise  sojourned; 
And  now  to  Helen  is  it  home  returned. 
There  to  remain. 

Lys.  Helen,  it  is  not  so. 

Dem.    Disparage  not  the  faith  thou  dost  not  know, 
]jest,  to  thy  peril,  thou  abide  it  dear. — 
Look  where  thy  love  comes ;  yonder  is  thy  dear. 

Enter  Hermia. 

Her.    Dark  night,  that  from  the  eye  his  function  takes, 
The  ear  more  quick  of  apprehension  makes ; 
Wherein  it  doth  impair  the  seeing  sense. 
It  pays  the  hearing  double  recompense. — 
Thou  art  not  by  mine  eye,  Lysander,  found ; 
Mine  ear  —  I  thank  it  —  brought  me  to  thy  sound. 
But  why  unkindly  didst  thou  leave  me  so? 


Act  m  ]       MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  421 

Lys.  Why  should  he  stay,  whom  love  doth  press  to  go  ? 

Her.  What  love  could  press  Lysander  from  my  side? 

Lys.    Lysander's  love,  that  would  not  let  him  bide  — 
Fair  Helena,  Avho  more  engilds  the  night 
Than  all  yon  fiery  oes  and  eyes  of  light. 
Why  seek'st  thou  me  ?     Could  not  this  make  thee  know. 
The  hate  I  bear  thee  made  me  leave  thee  so  ? 

Ser.    You  speak  not  as  you  think ;  it  cannot  be. 

Hel.    Lo,  she  is  one  of  this  confederacy ! 
Now  I  perceive  they  have  conjoined,  all  three, 
To  fashion  this  false  sport  in  spite  of  me. 
Injurious  Hermia  !  most  ungrateful  maid ! 
Have  you  conspired,  have  you  with  these  contrived 
To  bate  me  with  this  foul  derision  ? 
Is  all  the  counsel  that  we  two  have  shared, 
The  sisters'  vows,  the  hours  that  we  have  spent, 
When  we  have  chid  the  hasty-footed  time 
For  parting  us,  —  0,  and  is  all  forgot  ? 
All  school-days'  friendship,  childhood  innocence? 
We,  Hermia,  like  two  artificial  gods, 
Have  with  our  neelds  created  both  one  flower, 
Both  on  one  sampler,  sitting  on  one  cushion, 
Both  warbling  of  one  song,  both  in  one  key ; 
As  if  our  hands,  our  sides,  voices,  and  minds, 
Had  been  incorporate.     So  we  grew  together. 
Like  to  a  double  cherry,  seeming  parted ; 
But  yet  a  union  in  partition. 
Two  lovely  berries  moulded  on  one  stem ; 
So,  Avith  two  seeming  bodies,  but  one  heart; 
Two  of  the  first,  like  coats  in  heraldry. 
Due  but  to  one,  and  crowned  with  one  crest. 
And  will  you  rend  our  ancient  love  asunder, 
To  join  with  men  in  scorning  your  poor  friend? 
It  is  not  friendly,   'tis  not  maidenly. 
Our  sex,  as  well  as  I,  may  chide  you  for  it; 
Though  I  alone  do  feel  the  injury. 

Her.    I  am  amazed  at  your  passionate  words. 
I  scorn  you  not ;  it  seems  that  you  scorn  me. 

Hel.    Have  you  not  set  Lysander,  as  in  scorn. 
To  follow  me,  and  praise  my  eyes  and  face  ? 
And  made  your  other  love,  Demetrius, 
(Who  even  but  now  did  spurn  me  with  his  foot,) 
To  call  me  goddess,  nymph,   divine,  and  rare. 
Precious,  celestial  ?     Wherefore  speaks  he  this 
To  her  he  hates?     And  wherefore  doth  Lysander 
Deny  your  love,  so  rich  within  his  soul, 
2l 


422  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREA5I.        [Act  III 

And  tenier  me,  forsooth,  affection, 
But  by  your  setting  on,  by  your  consent  ? 
What  though  I  be  not  so  in  grace  as  you, 
So  hung  upon  with  love,  so  fortunate. 
But  miserable  most,  to  love  unloved  ? 
This  you  should  pity,  rather  than  despise. 

Her.    I  understand  not  what  you  mean  by  thin. 

Hel.    Ay,  do,  persever,  counterfeit  sad  looks, 
Make  mows  upon  me  when  I  turn  my  back ; 
Wink  at  each  other ;  hold  the  sweet  jest  up. 
This  sport,  well  carried,  shall  be  chronicled. 
If  you  have  any  pity,  grace,  or  manners. 
You  would  not  make  me  such  an  argument. 
But  fare  ye  well,     'lis  partly  mine  OAvn  fault; 
Which  death,  or  absence,  soon  shall  remedy. 

Lys.    Stay,  gentle  Helena ;  hear  my  excuse. 
My  love,  my  life,  my  soul,  fair  Helena ! 

Mel.    0  excellent ! 

Ser.  Sweet,  do  not  scorn  her  so. 

Dem.    If  she  cannot  entreat,  I  can  compel. 

Lys.    Thou  canst  compel  no  more  than  she  entreat ; 
Thy  threats  have  no  more  strength  than  her  weak  prayers. — 
Helen,  I  love  thee ;  by  my  life,  I  do. 
I  swear  by  that  which  I  will  lose  for  thee, 
To  prove  him  false,  that  says  I  love  thee  not. 

Dem.    I  say  I  love  thee  more  than  he  can  do. 

Lys.    If  thou  say  so,  withdraw  and  prove  it  too. 

Dem.    Quick,  come, — 

Her.  Lysander,  whereto  tends  all  this  \ 

Lys.    Away,  you  Ethiop ! 

L>em.  No,  no,  he'll  —  Sir, 

Seem  to  break  loose ;  take  on  as  you  would  follow ; 
But  yet  come  not.     You  are  a  tame  man,  go  ! 

Lys.    Hang  off,  thou  cat,  thou  burr.    Vile  thing,  let  loose ; 
Or  I  will  shake  thee  from  me  like  a  serpent. 

Her.    Why  are  you  grown  so  rude  ?     What  change  is  thiSj 
Sw^eet  love  ? 

Lys.  Thy  love  !     Out,  tawny  Tartar,  out ! 

Out,  loathed  medicine  !     Hated  potion,  hence  ! 

Her.    Do  you  not  jest? 

Hel.  Yes,   'sooth ;  and  so  do  you. 

Lys.    Demetrius,  I  will  keep  my  word  with  thee. 

Dem.    I  would  I  had  your  bond;  for,  I  perceive, 
A  weak  bond  holds  you.     I'll  not  trust  your  word. 

Lys.    What !  should  I  hurt  her,  strike  her,  kill  her  dead? 
Although  I  hate  her,  I'll  not  harm  her  so. 


Act  TIL]        MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  m 

Her.    What,  can  you  do  me  greater  harm  than  hate? 
Hate  me!     Wherefore?     0  me!     What  news,  my  love? 
Am  not  I  Hermia?     Are  not  you  Lysander? 
I  am  as  fair  now  as  I  was  erewhile. 
Since  night  you  loved  me ;  yet  since  night  you  left  me : 
Why,  then  you  left  me, — 0,  the  gods  forbid ! 
In  earnest  shall  I  say  ? 

Li/s.  _  Ay,  by  my  life; 

And  never  did  desire  to  see  thee  more. 
Therefore,  be  out  of  hope,  of  question,  doubt, 
Be  certain  nothing  truer.     'Tis  no  jest, 
That  I  do  hate  thee,  and  love  Helena. 

jETer.    0  me,  you  juggler !  you  canker-blossom 
You  thief  of  love  !  What,  have  you  come  by  night, 
And  stolen  my  love's  heart  from  him  ? 

Hel.  Fine,  i'faith! 

Have  you  no  modesty,  no  maiden  shame. 
No  touch  of  bashfulness  ?     What,  will  you  tear 
Impatient  answers  from  my  gentle  tongue  ? 
Fie,  fie !  you  counterfeit,  you  puppet,  you ! 

Se7'.    Puppet !     Why  so  ?     Ay,  that  way  goes  the  game 
Now  I  perceive  that  she  hath  made  compare 
Between  our  statures ;  she  hath  urged  her  height, 
And  Avith  her  personage,  her  tall  personage. 
Her  height,  forsooth,  she  hath  prevailed  with  him. — 
And  are  you  grown  so  high  in  his  esteem, 
Because  I  am  so  dwarfish  and  so  low  ? 
How  low  am  I,  thou  painted  maypole  ?     Speak ; 
How  low  am  I  ?     I  am  not  yet  so  low. 
But  that  my  nails  can  reach  unto  thine  eyes. 

ITel.    I  pray  you,  though  you  mock  me,  gentlemen, 
Let  her  not  hurt  me.     I  was  never  cui"st ; 
I  have  no  gift  at  all  in  shrewishness; 
I  am  a  right  maid  for  my  cowardice ; 
Let  her  not  strike  me.     You,  perhaps,  may  think, 
Because  she's  something  lower  than  myself, 
That  I  can  match  her. 

ITer.  Lower  !  Hark,  again. 

ITel.    Good  Hermia,  do  not  be  so  bitter  with  me. 
I  evermore  did  love  you,   Hermia, 
Did  ever  keep  your  counsels,  never  wronged  you; 
Save  that,  in  love  unto  Demetrius, 
I  told  him  of  your  stealth  unto  this  wood. 
He  followed  you :  for  love,  I  followed  him. 
But  he  hath  chid  me  hence,  and  threatened  me 
To  strike  me,  spurn  me,  nay,  to  kill  me  too  : 


424  MIDSUMMER-NIGHTS  DREAM.       [Act  III 

And  now,  so  you  will  let  me  quiet  go, 
To  Athens  Avill  I  bear  my  folly  back, 
And  follow  you  no  farther.     Let  me  go : 
You  see  how  simple  and  how  fond  I  am. 

Her.    Why,  get  you  gone  ?    Who  is't  that  hinders  you  ? 

Hel.    A  foolish  heart  that  I  leave  here  behind. 

Her.    What !  with  Lysander  ? 

Hel.  With  Demetrius. 

Lys.    Be  not  afraid ;  she  shall  not  harm  thee,  Helena. 

Dem.    No,  sir ;  she  shall  not,  though  you  take  her  part. 

Hel.    0,  when  she's  angry,  she  is  keen  and  shrewd. 
She  was  a  vixen,  when  she  went  to  school ; 
And,  though  she  be  but  little,  she  is  .fierce. 

Her.    Little  again?     Nothing  but  low  and  little V 
Why  will  you  suffer  her  to  flout  me  thus  ? 
Let  me  come  to  her. 

Lys.  Get  you  gone,  you  dwarf; 

You  minimus  of  hind'ring  knot-grass  made ; 
You  bead,  you  acorn. 

Be  III.    You  are  too  officious 
In  her  behalf  that  scorns  your  services. 
Let  her  alone ;  speak  not  of  Helena ; 
Take  not  her  part ;  for  if  thou  dost  intend 
Never  so  little  show  of  love  to  her, 
Thou  shalt  aby  it. 

Lys.  Now  she  holds  me  not. 

Now  follow  if  thou  dar'st,  to  try  whose  right, 
Or  thine,  or  mine,  is  most  in  Helena. 

Dem.    Follow  ?     Nay,  I'll  go  with  thee  cheek  by  jole. 

[Exeunt  Lys.  and  Dem. 

Her.    You,  mistress,  all  this  coil  is  'long  of  you. 
Nay,  go  not  back. 

Hel  I  will  not  trust  you,  I ; 

Nor  longer  stay  in  your  curst  company. 
Your  hands,  than  mine,  are  quicker  for  a  fray; 
My  legs  are  longer  though,  to  run  away.  [Exit. 

Her.    I  am  amazed,  and  know  not  what  to  say. 

[Exit,  pursuing  Helena. 

Ohe.    This  is  thy  negligence  ;  still  thou  mistak'st, 
Or  else  committ'st  thy  knaveries  wilfully. 

Puch.    Believe  me,  king  of  shadows,  I  mistook. 
Did  not  you  tell  me  I  should  know  the  man 
By  the  Athenian  garments  he  had  on  ? 
And  so  far  blameless  proves  my  enterprise, 
That  I  have  'nointed  an  Athenian's  eyes ; 


Act  III.]       MIDSUMiMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  425 

And  so  far  am  I  glad  it  so  did  sort, 
As  this  their  jangling  I  esteem  a  sport. 

Ohe.    Thou  see'st,  these  lovers  seek  a  place  to  fight. 
Hie,  therefore,  Robin,  overcast  the  night ; 
The  starry  welkin  cover  thou  anon 
With  drooping  fog,  as  black  as  Acheron ; 
And  lead  these  testy  rivals  so  astray, 
As  one  come  not  within  another's  way. 
Like  to  Lysander  sometime  frame  thy  tongue, 
Then  stir  Demetrius  up  with  bitter  wrong ; 
And  sometime  rail  thou  like  Demetrius ; 
And  from  each  other  look  thou  lead  them  thus, 
Till  o'er  their  brows  death-counterfeiting  sleep 
With  leaden  legs  and  batty  wings  doth  creep. 
Then  crush  this  herb  into  Lysander's  eye ; 
Whose  liquor  hath  this  virtuous  property. 
To  take  from  thence  all  error  with  his  might, 
And  make  his  eye-balls  roll  with  wonted  sight. 
When  they  next  wake,  all  this  derision 
Shall  seem  a  dream,  and  fruitless  vision ; 
And  back  to  Athens  shall  the  lovers  wend 
With  league  whose  date  till  death  shall  never  end 
Whiles  I  in  this  affair  do  thee  employ, 
I'll  to  my  queen,  and  beg  her  Indian  boy; 
And  then  I  will  her  charmed  eye  release 
From  monster's  view,  and  all  things  shall  be  peace. 

Puck.    My  fairy  lord,  this  must  be  done  with  haste. 
For  night's  swift  dragons  cut  the  clouds  full  fast, 
And  yonder  shines  Aurora's  harbinger. 
At  whose  approach,  ghosts,  wandering  here  and  there, 
Troop  home  to  church-yards.     Damned  spirits  all, 
That  in  cross-ways  and  floods  have  burial, 
Already  to  their  wormy  beds  are  gone ; 
For  fear  lest  day  should  look  their  shames  upon, 
They  wilfully  themselves  exile  from  light. 
And  must  for  aye  consort  with  black-browed  night. 

Obe.    But  we  are  spirits  of  another  sort. 
I  with  the  Morning's  love  have  oft  made  sport; 
And,  like  a  forester,  the  groves  may  tread, 
Even  till  the  eastern  gate,  all  fiery  red. 
Opening  on  Neptune  with  fiiir  blessed  beams, 
Turns  into  yellow  gold  his  salt-green  streams. 
But,  notwithstanding,  haste  ;   make  no  delay  : 
We  may  effect  this  business  yet  ere  day.        [Exit  ObERON. 
Puck.    Up  and  down,  up  and  down, 
1  will  lead  them  up  and  down. 
2l* 


426  MJDSUMMER-NIG]!T\S  DREAM.        [Act  111 

I  am  feared  in  field  and  town  ; 
Goblin,  lead  them  up  and  down. 
Here  comes  one. 

Enter  Lysander. 

Lys.  Wliere  art  thou,  proud  Demetrius  ?    Speak  thou  now. 
Puck    Here,  villain;  drawn  and  ready.    Where  art  thou? 
Lys.    I  will  be  with  thee  straight. 
Puck.  Follow  me,  then, 

To  plainer  ground.  [^Exit  Lys.  as  following  the  voice. 

Enter  Demetrius. 

Dem.  Lysander  !  speak  again. 

Thou  runaway,  thou  coward,  art  thou  fled  ? 
Speak.     In  some  bush  ?     Where  dost  thou  hide  thy  head  ? 

Puck.    Thou  coward,  art  thou  bragging  to  the  stars, 
Telling  the  bushes  that  thou  look'st  for  wars. 
And  wilt  not  come  ?     Come,  recreant ;   come,  thou  child, 
I'll  whip  thee  with  a  rod.     He  is  defiled, 
That  draws  a  sword  on  thee. 

De7)i.  Yea  ;  art  thou  there  ? 

Puck.    Follow  my  voice  ;  we'll  try  no  manhood  here. 

[^Exeunt. 
Re-enter  Lysander. 

Lys.    He  goes  before  me,  and  still  dares  me  on ; 
When  I  come  where  he  calls,  then  he  is  gone. 
The  villain  is  much  lighter  heeled  than  I. 
I  followed  fast,  but  faster  he  did  fly ; 
Thart  fallen  am  I  in  dark,  uneven  way. 
And  here  will  rest  me.     Come,  thou  gentle  day ! 

[Lies  down. 
For  if  but  once  thou  show  me  thy  gray  light, 
I'll  find  Demetrius,  and  revenge  this  spite.  \_Sleeps. 

Re-enter  Puck  mid  Demetrius. 

Puck.    Ho,  ho !  ho,  ho  !     Coward,  why  com'st  thou  not  ? 

Dem.    Abide  me,  if  thou  dar'st ;  for  well  I  wot, 
Thou  runn'st  before  me,  shifting  every  place ; 
And  dar'st  not  stand,  nor  look  me  in  the  face. 
Where  art  thou  ? 

Puck.  Come  hither ;  I  am  here. 

Deyn.    Nay,  then  thou  mock'st  me.     Thou  shalt  buy  this 
dear. 
If  ever  I  thy  face  by  day-light  see. 
Now,  go  thy  way.     Faintness  constraineth  me 


Act  III.]       MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  427 

To  measure  out  my  length  on  this  cold  bed.— • 
By  days  approach  look  to  be  visited. 

[^Lies  dozen  and  sleeps. 

Enter  Helena. 

Hel.    0  weary  night,  0  long  and  tedious  night, 
Abate  thy  hours.     Shine,  comforts,  from  the  east ; 
That  I  may  back  to  Athens  by  day -light. 

From  these  that  my  poor  company  detest. — 
And,  sleep,  that  sometimes  shuts  up  sorrow's  eye, 
Steal  me  awhile  from  mine  own  company.  \_Sleep9. 

Puck.    Yet  but  three  ?     Come  one  more ; 
Two  of  both  kinds  makes  up  four. 
Here  she  comes,  curst  and  sad. — 
Cupid  is  a  knavish  lad. 
Thus  to  make  poor  females  mad. 

Enter  Hermia. 

Her.    Never  so  weary,  never  so  in  woe. 

Bedabbled  with  the  dew  and  torn  with  briers, 
I  can  no  farther  crawl,  no  farther  go ; 

My  legs  can  keep  no  pace  with  my  desires. 
Here  will  I  rest  me,  till  the  break  of  day. 
Heaven  shield  Lysander  if  they  mean  a  fray !    [Lies  down 
Puck.  On  the  ground 
Sleep  sound. 
I'll  apply 
To  your  eye. 
Gentle  lover,  remedy. 

[Squeezing  the  juice  on  Lysander's  eye 
When  thou  wak'st 
Thou  tak'st 
True  delight 
In  the  sight 
Of  thy  former  lady's  eye ; 
And  the  country  proverb  known. 
That  every  man  should  take  his  own, 
In  your  waking  shall  be  shown. 
Jack  shall  have  Jill ; 
Nought  shall  go  ill ; 
The  man  shall  have  his  mare  again,  and  all  shall  be  well. 
[Exit  Puck. — Dem.,  Hel.,  ^^c.  sleep 


428  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.       [Act  IV 

ACT    IV. 
SCENE  I.      The  same. 

Enter  Titania  and  Bottom,  Fairies  attending  ;   Oberon 
behind,  unseen. 

Tita.    Come,  sit  thee  down  upon  this  flowery  bed, 
While  I  thy  amiable  cheeks  do  coy, 
And  stick  musk-roses  in  thy  sleek  smooth  head. 
And  kiss  thy  fair  large  ears,  my  gentle  joy. 

Bot.    Where's  Peas-blossom? 

Peas.    Ready. 

Bot.  Scratch  my  head.  Peas-blossom. — Where's  monsieur 
Cobweb  ? 

Coh.    Ready. 

Bot.  Monsieur  Cobweb,  good  monsieur,  get  your  weapons 
in  your  hand,  and  kill  me  a  red-hipped  humble-bee  on  the 
top  of  a  thistle ;  and,  good  monsieur,  bring  me  the  honey- 
bag.  Do  not  fret  yourself  too  much  in  the  action,  mon- 
sieur;  and,  good, monsieur,  have  a  care  the  honey-bag  break 
not ;  I  would  be  loath  to  have  you  overflown  with  the  honey- 
bag,  seignior.     Where's  monsieur  Mustard-seed  ? 

Must.    Ready. 

Bot.  Give  me  your  neif,  monsieur  Mustard-seed.  Pray 
you,  leave  your  courtesy,  good  monsieui*. 

Must.    What's  your  will  ? 

Bot.  Nothing,  good  monsieur,  but  to  help  cavalero  Cob- 
web to  scratch.  I  must  to  the  barber's  monsieur ;  for,  me- 
thinks,  I  am  marvellous  hairy  about  the  face,  and  I  am  such 
a  tender  ass,  if  my  hair  do  but  tickle  me  I  must  scratch. 

Tita.  What,  wilt  thou  hear  some  music,  my  sweet  love  Z 

Bot.  I  have  a  reasonable  good  ear  in  music.  Let  us  have 
the  tongs  and  the  bones. 

Tita.    Or  s*ay,  sweet  love,  what  thou  desir'st  to  eat. 

Bot.  Truly,  a  peck  of  provender:  I  could  munch  jour 
good  dry  oats.  Methinks  I  have  a  great  desire  to  a  bottle 
of  hay :  good  hay,  sweet  hay,  hath  no  fellow. 

Tita.    I  have  a  venturous  fairy  that  shall  seek 
The  squirrel's  hoard,  and  fetch  thee  new  nuts. 

Bot.  I  had  rather  have  a  handful,  or  two,  of  dried  peas. 
But,  I  pray  you  let  none  of  your  people  stir  me ;  I  have  an 
exposition  of  sleep  come  upon  me. 

Tita.    Sleep  thou,  and  I  will  wind  thee  it  my  arms 
Fairies,  be  gone,  and  be  all  ways  away. 


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A.CT  IV.]        MIDSU-MMER-XIGHT'S  DREAM.  429 

So  doth  the  woodbine,  the  sweet  honeysuckle, 

Gently  entwist,  —  the  female  ivy  so 

Enrings  the  barky  fingers  of  the  elm. 

0,  how  I  love  thee!  how  I  dote- on  thee!      \_Tlity  sleep 

Oberon  advances.     Enter  Puck. 

Ohe.  "Welcome,  good  Robin.    See'st  thou  this  sweet  sight? 
Her  dotage  now  I  do  begin  to  pity 
For  meeting  her  of  late,  behind  the  wood, 
Seeking  sweet  savors  for  this  hateful  fool, 
I  did  upbraid  her,  and  fall  out  with  her. 
For  she  his  hairy  temples  then  had  rounded 
With  coronet  of  fresh  and  fragrant  flowers ; 
And  that  same  dew,  which  sometime  on  the  buds 
"Was  wont  to  swell,  like  round  and  orient  pearls, 
Stood  now  within  the  pretty  flowerets'  eyes. 
Like  tears,  that  did  their  own  disgrace  bewail. 
"When  I  had,  at  my  pleasure,  taunted  her. 
And  she,  in  mild  terms,  begged  my  patience, 
I  then  did  ask  of  her  her  changeling  child ; 
"Which  straight  she  gave  me,  and  her  fairy  sent 
To  bear  him  to  my  bower  in  fairy  land. 
And  now  I  have  the  boy,  I  will  undo 
This  hateful  imperfection  of  her  eyes. 
And,  gentle  Puck,  take  this  transformed  scalp 
From  off  the  head  of  this  Athenian  swain ; 
That  he,  awaking  when  the  others  do. 
May  all  to  Athens  back  again  repair; 
And  think  no  more  of  this  night's  accidents. 
But  as  the  fierce  vexation  of  a  dream. 
But  first  I  will  release  the  fairy  queen. 
Be  thou  as  thou  wast  wont  to  be; 

\_Touching  her  eyes  with  an  herb. 
See  as  thou  wast  wont  to  see. 
Dian's  bud  o'er  Cupid's  flower 
Hath  such  force  and  blessed  power. 
Now,  my  Titania,  wake  you,  my  sweet  queen. 

Tita.    My  Oberon !  what  visions  have  I  seen ! 
Methought  I  was  enamored  of  an  ass. 

Ohe.    Thei-e  lies  your  love. 

Tita.  How  came  these  things  to  pass? 

0,  how  mine  eyes  do  loath  his  visage  now ! 

Obe.    Silence,  awhile. — llobin,  take  off  this  head.— 
Titania,  music  call ;  and  strike  more  dead 
Than  common  sleep,  of  all  these  five  the  sense. 

Tita.    Music,  ho  !  music ;  such  as  charcieth  sleep. 


430  MIDSUMMEK-NIGIIT'S  DIlEAM.        [Act  IV. 

PucTc.    Now,  when    thou  wak'st,  with  thine  own    foors 

eyes  peep. 
Obe,    Sound,  music.     \_Still  music.']     Come,  my  queen, 
take  hands  with  me, 
And  rock  the  ground  whereon  these  sleepers  be. 
Now  thou  and  I  are  new  in  amity ; 
And  will,  to-morrow  midnight,  solemnly, 
Dance  in  duke  Theseus'  house  triumphantly, 
And  bless  it  to  all  fair  posterity. 
There  shall  the  pairs  of  faithful  lovers  be 
Wedded,  with  Theseus,  all  in  jollity. 

Puck.    Fairy  king,  attend  and  mark; 
r  do  hear  the  morning  lark. 

Obe.    Then,  my  queen,  in  silence  sad, 
Trip  we  after  the  night's  shade. 
We  the  globe  can  compass  soon, 
Swifter  than  the  wandering  moon. 

Tifa.    Come,  my  lord ;  and  in  our  flight, 
Tell  me  how  it  came  this  night. 
That  I  sleeping  here  was  found. 
With  these  mortals  on  the  ground.  [Uzeunt, 

lIToi'ns  sound  within. 

Enter  Theseus,  Hippoltta,  Egeus,  and  Train. 

The.    Go,  one  of  you,  find  out  the  forester ;  — 
For  now  our  observation  is  performed, 
And  since  we  have  the  vaward  of  the  day. 
My  love  shall  hear  the  music  of  my  hounds. — 
Uncouple  in  the  western  valley ;  go : 
Despatch,   I  say,   and  find  the  forester. — 
We  Avill,  fair  queen,  up  to  the  mountain's  top, 
And  mark  the  musical  confusion 
Of  hounds  and  echo  in  conjunction. 

Hip.    I  was  with  Hercules,  and  Cadmus,  once. 
When  in  a  wood  of  Crete  they  bayed  the  bear 
With  hounds  of  Sparta.     Never  did  I  hear 
Such  gallant  chiding ;  for,  besides  the  groves, 
The  skies,  the  fountains,  every  region  near 
Seemed  all  one  mutual  cry.     I  never  heard  • 
So  musical  a  discord,   such  sweet  thunder. 

The.    My  hounds  are  bred  out  of  the  Spartan  kind, 
So  flowed,  so-'  sanded ;  and  their  heads  are  hung 
With  ears  that  sweep  away  the  morning  dew; 
Crook-kneed  and  dew-lapped  like  Thessalian  bulls ; 
Slow  in  pujsuit,  but  matched  in  mouth  like  bells. 
Each  under  each.     A  cry  more  tunable 


Act  IV.]        MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM.  431 

Was  never  hollaed  too,  nor  cheered  with  horn, 

In  Crete,  in  Sparta,  nor  in  Thessaly. 

Judge,  when  you  hear. — But  soft;  what  nymphs  are  these? 

Ege.    My  lord,  this  is  my  daughter  here  asleep; 
And  this,  Lysander ;  this  Demetrius  is ; 
This  Helena,  old  Nedar's  Helena. 
I  wonder  of  their  being  here  together- 

The.    No  doubt,  they  rose  up  early,  to  observe 
The  rite  of  May ;  and,  hearing  our  intent, 
Came  here  in  grace  of  our  solemnity. — 
But  speak,  Egeus ;  is  not  this  the  day 
That  Hermia  should  give  answer  of  her  choico  / 

Ege.    It  is,  my  lord. 

The.    Go,  bid  the  huntsmen  wake  them  with  their  horns. 

Morns  and  shout  within.    Demetrius,  Lysander,  Hermia, 
and  Helena,  ivake  and  start  up. 

The.    Good-morrow,  friends.     Saint  Valentine  is  past; 
Begin  these  wood-birds  but  to  couple  noAv? 

Lys.    Pardon,  my  lord. 

[Re  and  the  rest  Jcneel  to  Theseus, 

The.  I  pray  you  all  stand  up. 

I  know  you  are  two  rival  enemies ; 
How  comes  this  gentle  concord  in  the  world, 
That  hatred  is  so  far  from  jealousy, 
To  sleep  by  hate,  and  fear  no  enmity? 

iys.    My  lord,  I  shall  reply  amazedly, 
Half  'sleep,  half  waking.     But  as  yet,  1  swear, 
I  cannot  truly  say  how  I  came  here ; 
But,  as  I  think,  (for  truly  would  I  speak, — 
And  now  I  do  bethink  me,  so  it  is,) 
I  came  with  Hermia  hither.     Our  intent 
Was  to  be  gone  from  Athens,  where  we  might  be 
Without  the  peril  of  the  Athenian  law. 

Ege.    Enough,  enough,  my  lord;  you  have  enough. 
I  beg  the  law,  the  law,  upon  his  head. — 
They  would  have  stolen  away,  they  would,  Demetrius, 
Thereby  to  have  defeated  you  and  me ; 
You,  of  your  wife,  and  me,  of  my  consent ; 
Of  my  consent  that  she  should  be  your  wife. 

Dem.    My  lord,  fair  Helen  told  me  of  their  stealth, 
Of  this  their  purpose  hither,  to  this  wood; 
And  I  in  fury  hither  followed  them 
Fair  Helena  in  fancy  following  me. 
But,  my  good  lord,  I  wot  not  by  what  power 
(But  by  some  power  it  is)  my  love  to  Hermia, 


-132  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.        [Act  IV 

Melted  as  doth  the  snow,  seems  to  me  now 
As  the  remembrance  of  an  idle  gawd, 
Which  in  my  childhood  I  did  dote  upon ; 
And  all  the  faith,  the  virtue  of  my  heart, 
The  object,  and  the  pleasure  of  mine  eye, 
Is  only  Helena.     To  her,  my  lord. 
Was  I  betrothed  ere  I  saw  Hermia ; 
But,  like  in  sickness,  did  I  loath  this  food; 
But,  as  in  health,  come  to  my  natural  taste, 
Now  do  I  wish  it,  love  it,  long  for  it. 
And  will  for  ever  more  be  true  to  it. 

The.    Fair  lovers,  you  are  fortunately  met. 
Of  this  discourse  we  more  will  hear  anon. — 
Egeus,  I  will  overbear  your  will ; 
For  in  the  temple,  by  and  by  with  us. 
These  couples  shall  eternally  be  knit. 
And,  for  the  morning  now  is  something  worn, 
Our  purposed  hunting  shall  be  set  aside. — 
Away,  with  us,  to  Athens.     Three  and  three, 
We'll  hold  a  feast  in  great  solemnity. 
Come,  Hippolyta.  {_Exeunt  The.,  Hip.,  Ege.  and  Train. 

Bern.    These  things  seem  small  and  undistinguishable, 
Like  far-off  mountains  turned  into  clouds. 

Her.    Methinks  I  see  these  things  with  parted  eye, 
When  every  thing  seems  double. 

Mel.  So  methinks ; 

And  I  have  found  Demetrius  like  a  jewel. 
Mine  own,  and  not  mine  own. 

Dem.  It  seems  to  me, 

That  yet  we  sleep,  we  dream.  —  Do  not  you  think. 
The  duke  was  here,  and  bid  us  follow  him? 

Her.    Yea,  and  my  father. 

Hel.  And  Hippolyta. 

Lys.    And  he  did  bid  us  follow  to  the  temple. 

Bern.    Why,  then  we  are  awake.     Let's  follow  him ; 
And,  by  the  way,  let  us  recount  our  dreams.      [Exeunt. 

As  they  go  out,  Bottom  awakes. 

Bot.  When  my  cue  comes,  call  me,  and  I  will  answer. — 
My  next  is.  Most  fair  Pyramus.  —  Hey,  ho  !  —  Peter 
Quince !  Flute,  the  bellows-mender !  Snout,  the  tinker  \ 
Starveling !  God's  my  life !  stolen  hence,  and  left  me  asleep ! 
I  have  had  a  most  rare  vision.  I  have  had  a  dream, — past 
the  wit  of  man  to  say  what  dream  it  was.  Man  is  but  an 
ass,  if  he  go  about  to  expound  this  dream.  Methought  I 
^vas  —  there  is  no  man  can  tell  what.     Methought  I  was 


Act  IV.]        MIDSU3IMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  433 

and  methought  I  had, — but  man  is  but  a  patched  fool,  if  he 
will  offer  to  say  what  methought  I  had.  The  eye  of  man 
hath  not  heard,  the  ear  of  man  hath  not  seen,  man's  hand 
is  not  able  to  taste,  his  tongue  to  conceive,  nor  his  heart  to 
report,  what  my  dream  was.  I  will  get  Peter  Quince  to 
write  a  ballad  of  this  dream ;  it  shall  be  called  Bottom's 
Dream,  because  it  hath  no  bottom  ;  and  I  will  sing  it  in  the 
latter  end  of  a  play,  before  the  duke.  Peradventure,  to 
make  it  the  more  gracious,  I  shall  sing  it  at  her  death. 

[Uxit. 

SCENE  II.     Athens.     A  Room  in  Quince's  House. 
Enter  Quince,  Flute,  Snout,  and  Starveling. 

Quin.  Have  you  sent  to  Bottom's  house  ?  Is  he  come 
home  yet  ? 

Star.  He  cannot  be  heard  of.  Out  of  doubt,  he  is  tran- 
sported. 

Flu.  If  he  come  not,  then  the  play  is  marred.  It  goes 
not  forward,  doth  it  ? 

Quin.  It  is  not  possible.  You  have  not  a  man  in  all 
Athens  able  to  discharge  Pyramus  but  he. 

Flu.  No ;  he  hath  simply  the  best  wit  of  any  handicraft 
man  in  Athens. 

Quin.  Yea,  and  the  best  person  too ;  and  he  is  a  very 
paramour  for  a  sweet  voice. 

Flu.  You  must  say,  paragon.  A  paramour  is,  God  bless 
us,  a  thing  of  nought. 

Enter  Snug. 

Snug.  Masters,  the  duke  is  coming  from  the  temple,  and 
there  is  two  or  three  lords  and  ladies  more  married.  If  our 
sport  had  gone  forward,  we  had  all  been  made  men. 

Flu.  0  sweet  bully  Bottom  !  Thus  hath  he  lost  sixpence 
a-day  during  his  life.  He  could  not  have  'scaped  sixpence 
a-day ;  an  the  duke  had  not  given  him  sixpence  a-day  for 
playing  Pyramus,  I'll  be  hanged ;  he  would  have  deserved 
it.     Sixpence  a-day,  in  Pyramus,  or  nothing. 

Enter  Bottom. 

Bot.   "Where  are  these  lads  ?  Where  are  these  hearts  ? 

Quin.  Bottom !  —  0  most  courageous  day !  0  most 
happy  hour ! 

Bot.  Masters,  I  am  to  discourse  wonders;  but  ask  me 
not  what ;  for,  if  I  tell  you,  I  am  no  true  Athenian.  I  will 
tell  you  every  thing,  right  as  it  fell  out. 

Vol.  I.  — 28  2  m 


434  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DRE.VM.         [Act  V 

Quin,    Let  us  hear,  sweet  Bottom. 

Bot.  Not  a  word  of  me.  All  that  I  will  tell  you,  is,  that 
the  duke  hath  dined.  Get  your  apparel  together ;  good 
strings  to  your  beards,  new  ribands  to  your  pumps ;  meet 
presently  at  the  palace ;  every  man  look  o'er  his  part ;  for 
the  short  and  the  long  is,  our  play  is  preferred.  In  any 
case,  let  Thisby  have  clean  linen  ;  and  let  not  him,  that 
plays  the  lion,  pare  his  nails,  for  they  shall  hang  out  for  the 
lion's  claws.  And,  most  dear  actors,  eat  no  onions,  nor 
garlic,  for  we  are  to  utter  sweet  breath  ;  and  I  do  not  doubt 
but  to  hear  them  say.  It  is  a  sweet  comedy.  No  more 
words ;  away  ;  go,  away.  [^Exeunt. 


ACT   V. 

SCENE  I.     The  same.     An  Apartment  in  the  Palace 
of  Theseus. 

JEnter  Theseus,  Hippolyta,  Philostrate,  Lords,  and 
Attendants. 

ffip.   'Tis  strange,  my  Theseus,  that  these  lovers  speak  of? 

The.    More  strange  than  true.     I  never  may  believe 
These  antique  fables,  nor  these  fairy  toys. 
Lovers,  and  madmen,  have  such  seething  brains, 
Such  shaping  fantasies,  that  apprehend 
More  than  cool  reason  ever  comprehends. 
The  lunatic,  the  lover,  and  the  poet, 
Are  of  imagination  all  compact. 
One  sees  more  devils  than  vast  hell  can  hold ; 
That  is,  the  madman :  the  lover,  all  as  frantic, 
Sees  Helen's  beauty  in  a  brow  of  Egypt : 
The  poet's  eye,  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling. 
Doth  glance  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to  heaven ; 
And,  as  imagination  bodies  forth 
The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 
Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 
A  local  habitation,  and  a  name. 
Such  tricks  hath  strong  imagination, 
That,  if  it  would  but  apprehend  some  joy, 
It  comprehends  some  bringer  of  that  joy ; 
Or,  in  the  night,  imagining  some  fear, 
How  easy  is  a  bush  supposed  a  bear ! 


Act  v.]         MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  435 

Hip.    But  all  the  story  of  tlie  night  told  over, 
And  all  their  minds  transfigured  so  together, 
More  witnesseth  than  fancy's  images, 
And  grows  to  something  of  great  constancy  ; 
But,  howsoever,  strange  and  admirable. 

Enter  Lysander,  Demetrius,  Hermia,  and  Helena. 

The.    Here  come  the  lovers,  full  of  joy  and  mirth. — 
Joy,  gentle  friends  !  joy,  and  fresh  days  of  love. 
Accompany  your  hearts ! 

Lys.  More,  than  to  us, 

Wait  on  your  royal  walks,  your  board,  your  bed! 

The.    Come,  now  ;  what  masks,  what  dances  shall  we  have, 
To  wear  away  this  long  age  of  three  hours, 
Between  our  after-supper,  and  bed-time? 
Where  is  our  usual  manager  of  mirth? 
What  revels  are  in  hand?     Is  there  no  play, 
To  ease  the  anguish  of  a  torturing  hour? 
Call  Philostrate. 

Philost.  Here,  mighty  Theseus. 

The.    Say,  what  abridgement  have  you  for  this  evening  ? 
What  mask?  what  music?     How  shall  we  beguile 
The  lazy  time,  if  not  with  some  delight  ? 

Philost.    There  is  a  brief,  how  many  sports  are  ripe; 
Make  choice  of  which  your  highness  will  see  first. 

\_G-iving  a  paper. 

The.    {^Reads."]    The  battle  tvith  the  Centaurs,  to  be  sung 

By  an  Athenian  eunuch  to  the  harp. 
We'll  none  of  that;  that  have  I  told  my  love. 
In  glory  of  my  kinsman  Hercules. 

The  riot  of  the  tipsy  Bacchanals, 

Tearing  the   Thracian  singer  in  their  rage. 
That  is  an  old  device  ;  and  it  was  played 
When  I  from  Thebes  came  last  a  conqueror. 

The  thrice  three  muses  mourning  for  the  death 

Of  learning,  late  deceased  in  beggary. 
That  is  some  satire,  keen,  and  critical. 
Not  sorting  with  a  nuptial  ceremony. 

A  tedious  brief  scene  of  young  Pyramus, 

And  his  love   Thisbe ;  very  tragical  mirth. 
Merry  and  tragical!     Tedious  and  brief! 
That  is,  hot  ice,  and  wondrous  strange  snow 
How  shall  we  find  the  concord  of  this  discord? 

Philost.    A  play  there  is,  my  lord,  some  ton  wor(l3  long, 
Which  is  as  brief  as  I  have  known  a  play; 
But  by  ten  words,  my  lord,  it  is  too  long. 


436  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM..         [Act  V 

WLicli  makes  it  tedious ;  for  in  all  the  play 
There  is  not  one  word  apt,  one  player  fitted. 
A  tragical,  my  noble  lord,  it  is, 
For  Pyramus  therein  doth  kill  himself; 
Which,  when  I  saw  rehearsed,  I  must  confess, 
Made  mine  eyes  water ;  but  more  merry  tears 
The  passion  of  loud  laughter  never  shed. 

The.    What  are  they  that  do  play  it  ? 

Philost.    Hard-handed  men,  that  work  in  Athens  here, 
Which  never  labored  in  their  minds  till  now ; 
And  now  have  toiled  their  unbreathed  memories 
With  this  same  play,  against  your  nuptial. 

The.    And  we  will  hear  it. 

Philost.  No,  my  noble  lord, 

It  is  not  for  you.     I  have  heard  it  over. 
And  it  is  nothing,  nothing  in  the  world; 
Unless  you  can  find  sport  in  their  intents. 
Extremely  stretched,  and  conned  with  cruel  pain, 
To  do  you  service. 

The.  I  will  hear  that  play; 

For  never  any  thing  can  be  amiss. 
When  simpleness  and  duty  tender  it. 
Gro,  bring  them  in ;  —  and  take  your  places,  ladies. 

[Exit  Philostkate. 

Hip.   I  love  not  to  see  wretchedness  o'ercharged, 
And  duty  in  his  service  perishing. 

The.    Why,  gentle  sweet,  you  shall  see  no  such  thing. 

Hip.    He  says  they  can  do  nothing  in  this  kind. 

Tlie.    The  kinder  we,  to  give  them  thanks  for  nothing. 
Our  sport  shall  be,  to  take  what  they  mistake; 
And  what  poor  duty  cannot  do. 
Noble  respect  takes  it  in  might,  not  merit. 
Where  I  have  come,  great  clerks  have  purposed 
To  greet  me  with  premeditated  welcomes; 
Where  I  have  seen  them  shiver  and  look  pale, 
Make  periods  in  the  midst  of  sentences. 
Throttle  their  practised  accent  in  their  fears, 
And,  in  conclusion,  dumbly  have  broke  off, 
Not  paying  me  a  welcome ;  trust  me,  sweet, 
Out  of  this  silence,  yet,  I  picked  a  welcome ; 
And  in  the  modesty  of  fearful  duty 
I  read  as  much,  as  from  the  rattling  tongue 
Of  saucy  and  audacious  eloquence. 
Love,  therefore,  and  tongue-tied  simplicity, 
In  least  speak  most,  to  my  capacity. 


Act  v.]         MIDSUMMER-NIGHTS  DREAM.  437 

Enter  Philostrate. 

Philost.    So  please  your  grace,  the  prologue  is  addrest. 
The.    Let  him  approach.  [Flourish  of  trumpets. 

Enter  Prologue. 

Prol.    If  we  offend,  it  is  with  our  good  will. 
That  you  should  think  we  come  not  to  offend. 
But  with  good  will.      To  show  our  simple  skill, 

That  is  the  true  beginning  of  our  end. 
Consider,  then,  we  come  but  i%  desjJite. 

We  do  not  come  as  minding  to  content  you, 
Our  true  intent  is.     All  for  your  delight, 

We  are  not  here.      That  you  should  here  repent  you. 
The  actors  are  at  hand;  ana,   by  their  shozv. 
You  shall  know  all,  that  you  are  like  to  knoiv. 
The.    This  fellow  doth  not  stand  upon  points. 
Lys.    He  hath  rid  his  prol'^gue,  like  a  rough  colt ;  he 
knows  not  the  stop.     A  gooct  moral,  my  lord.     It  is  not 
enough  to  speak,  but  to  speak  true. 

Hip.  Indeed  he  hath  played  on  this  prologue  like  a  child 
on  a  recorder ;  a  sound  but  not  in  government. 

The.    His  speech  was  like  a  tangled  chain ;  nothing  im- 
paired, but  all  disordered.     Who  is  next  ? 

Enter  Pyramus  and  Thisbe,  Wall,  Moon-shine,  and  Lion, 
as  in  dumb  show. 

Prol.    "  Gentles,  perchance  you  wonder  at  this  show ; 

"But  wonder  on,  till  truth  make  all  things  plain. 
"  This  man  is  Pyramus,  if  you  would  know ; 

"  This  beauteous  lady  Thisby  is,  certain. 
"This  man,  with  lime  and  rough- cast,  doth  present 

"  Wall,  that  vile  wall  which  did  these  lovers  sunder ; 
"And  through  wall's  chink,  poor  souls,  they  are  content 

"  To  whisper ;  at  the  which  let  no  man  wonder. 
"  This  man,  with  lantern,  dog,  and  bush  of  thorn, 

"  Presenteth  moon-shine  ;  for,  if  you  will  know, 
"  By  moon-shine  did  these  lovers  think  no  scorn 

"  To  meet  at  Ninus'  tomb,  there,  there  to  woo 
"  This  grisly  beast,  which  by  name  lion  hight, 
"  The  trusty  Thisby,  coming  first  by  night, 
"  Did  scare  away,  or  rather  did  affright ; 
"And,  as  she  fled,  her  mantle  she  did  fall ; 

"  Which  lion  vile  with  bloody  mouth  did  staia 
"Anon  comes  Pyramus,  sweet  youth,  and  tall, 

"And  finds  his  trusty  Thisby 's  mantle  slain. 
2m* 


438  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.         [Act  \ 

"Whereat  with  blade,  -with  bloody  blamefvd  blade, 

"He  bravely  broached  his  boiling  bloody  breast; 
"And,  Thisby  tarrying  in  mulberry  shade, 

"  His  dagger  drew,  and  died.     For  all  the  rest, 
"  Let  lion,  moon-shine,  wall,  and  lovers  twain, 
"  At  large  discourse,  while  here  they  do  remain." 

[_£xeunt  Prol.,  Tiiisbe,  Lion,  and  Moon-shine. 

The.    I  wonder  if  the  lion  be  to  speak. 

Dem.  No  wonder,  my  lord.  One  lion  may,  when  many 
asses  do. 

Wall.    "  In  this  same  interlude,  it  doth  befall, 
"  That  I,  one  Snout  by  name,  present  a  wall : 
"  And  such  a  wall,  as  I  would  have  you  think, 
"  That  had  in  it  a  crannied  hole,  or  chink, 
"  Through  which  the  lovers,  Pyramus  and  Thisby, 
"Did  whisper  often  very  secretly. 
*'  This  loam,  this  rough-cast,  and  this  stone,  doth  shoTV 
"  That  I  am  that  same  wall.     The  truth  is  so  : 
"  And  this  the  cranny  is,  right  and  sinister, 
"  Through  which  the  fearful  lovers  are  to  whisper." 

The.  Would  you  desire  lime  and  hair  to  speak  better  ? 

Dem.  It  is  the  wittiest  partition  that  ever  I  heard  dis- 
course, my  lord. 

The.    Pyramus  draws  near  the  wall.     Silence ! 

Unter  Pyramus. 

P^r.  "  0  grim-looked  night !    0  night  with  hue  so  black ! 

"  0  night,  which  ever  art,  when  day  is  not ! 
"  0  night,  0  night,  alack,  alack,  alack, 

"  I  fear  my  Thisby's  promise  is  forgot !  — 
"  And  thou,  0  wall,  0  sweet,  0  lovely  wall, 

"  That  stand'st  between  her  father's  ground  and  mine ; 
"  Thou  wall,  0  wall,  0  sweet  and  lovely  wall, 

"  Show  me  thy  chink,  to  blink  through  with  mine  eyne. 

[Wail  holds  up  his  fingers. 
"  Thanks,  courteous  wall.     Jove  shield  thee  well  for  this  ? 

"But  what  see  I?     No  Thisby  do  I  see. 
"  0  wicked  wall,  through  whom  I  see  no  bliss. 

"  Curst  be  thy  stones  for  thus  deceiving  me  ! " 

The.  The  wall,  methinks,  being  sensible,  should  curse  again. 

Pi/r.  No,  in  truth,  sir,  he  should  not.  Deceiving  me,  is 
Thisby's  cue.  She  is  to  enter  now,  and  I  am  to  spy  her 
through  the  wall.  You  shall  see,  it  will  fall  pat  as  I  told 
YOU.  —  Yonder  she  comes. 


Act  v.]        MIDSUMMER-NianT'S  DREAM.  43S 

Enter  Thisbe. 

This.  "  0  wall,  full  often  hast  thou  heard  my  moans, 
"For  parting  my  fair  Pyramus  and  me. 

"  My  cherry  lips  have  often  kissed  thy  stones ; 

"  Thy  stones,  "with  lime  and  hair  knit  up  in  thee." 
Pyr.  "  I  see  a  voice :  now  will  I  to  the  chink, 

"  To  spy  an  I  can  hear  my  Thisby's  face. 

"Thisby!" 

TJm.    "My  love!     Thou  art  my  love,  I  think." 
Pyr.   "Think  what  thou  wilt,  I  am  thy  lover's  grace; 

"And  like  Limander  am  I  trusty  still." 

This.  "And  I  like  Helen,  till  the  fates  me  kill." 
Pyr.   "Not  Shafalus  to  Procrus  was  so  true." 
This.   "As  Shafalus  to  Procrus,  I  to  you." 
Pyr.  "  0,  kiss  me  through  the  hole  of  this  vile  wall." 
This.  "I  kiss  the  wall's  hole,  not  your  lips  at  all." 
Pyr.  "  Wilt  thou  at  Ninny's  tomb  meet  me  straightway?" 
This.  "  Tide  life,  tide  death,  I  come  without  delay." 
Wall.  "  Thus  have  I,  wall,  my  part  discharged  so ; 

"And,  being  done,  thus  wall  away  doth  go." 

\_Exeimt  Wall,  Pyramus,  and  Thisbe. 
The.  Now  is  the  mural  down  between  the  two  neighbors. 
Dem.    No  remedy,  my  lord,  when  walls  are  so  wilful  to 

hear  without  warning. 

Hip.    This  is  the  silliest  stuff  that  ever  I  heard. 

The.    The  best  in  this  kind  are  but  shadows ;    and  the 

worst  are  no  worse,  if  imagination  amend  them. 

Hip.    It  must  be  your  imagination  then,  and  not  theirs. 
The.  If  we  imagine  no  worse  of  them,  than  they  of  them- 
selves, they  may  pass  for  excellent  men.     Here  come  two 

noble  beasts  in,  a  man  and  a  lion. 

Enter  Lion  and  Moon-shine. 

Lion.  "  You,  ladies,  you,  whose  gentle  hearts  do  fear 

"  The  smallest  monstrous  mouse  that  creeps  on  floor, 
"May  now,  perchance,  both  quake  and  tremble  here, 

"  When  lion  rough  in  wildest  rage  doth  roar. 
"  Then  know,  that  I,  one  Snug  the  joiner,  am 
"  No  lion  fell,  nor  else  no  lion's  dam : 
'*  For  if  I  should  as  lion  come  in  strife 
"Into  this  place,   'twere  pity  on  my  life." 

The.    A  very  gentle  beast,  and  of  a  good  conscience. 

Dem.    The  very  best  at  a  beast,  my  1  ')rd,  that  e'er  I  saw. 

Lys.    This  lion  is  a  very  fox  for  his  valor. 

The.  True ;  and  a  goose  for  his  discretion. 


440  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.         [Act  N^ 

Dem.  Not  so,  my  lord ;  for  liis  valor  cannot  carry  his 
discretion  ;  and  the  fox  carries  the  goose. 

The.  His  discretion,  I  am  sure,  cannot  carry  his  valor ; 
for  the  o-oose  carries  not  the  fox.  It  is  well.  Leave  it  to 
his  discretion,  and  let  us  listen  to  the  moon. 

Moon.  "  This  lantern  doth  the  horned  moon  present." 

Dem.    He  should  have  "worn  the  horns  on  his  head. 

The.  He  is  no  crescent,  and  his  horns  are  invisible  within 
the  circumference. 

3Ioon.  "This  lantern  doth  the  horned  moon  present. 
"Myself  the  man  i'the  moon  doth  seem  to  be." 

The.  This  is  the  greatest  error  of  all  the  rest.  The 
man  should  be  put  into  the  lantern.  How  is  it  else  the 
man  i'the  moon  ? 

Devi.  He  dares  not  come  there  for  the  candle  ;  for,  you 
see,  it  is  already  in  snuff. 

Mip.  I  am  aweary  of  this  moon.     Would  he  would  change ! 

The.  It  appears,  by  his  small  light  of  discretion,  that  he 
is  in  the  wane ;  but  yet,  in  courtesy,  in  all  reason,  we  must 
stay  the  time. 

JL^s.    Proceed,  moon. 

Moon.  All  that  I  have  to  say,  is,  to  tell  you,  that  the 
lantern  is  the  moon  ;  I,  the  man  in  the  moon ;  this  thorn 
bush,  my  thorn  bush ;  and  this  dog,  my  dog. 

Dem.  Why,  all  these  should  be  in  the  lantern ;  for  they 
are  in  the  moon.     But  silence  ;  here  comes  Thisbe. 

Unter  Thisbe. 

This.  "  This  is  old  Ninny's  tomb.     Where  is  my  love  ?  " 
Lion.  "Oh — ."      {^The  Lion  roars.  —  Thisbe  runs  off. 
Dem.  Well  roared,  lion. 
The.  Well  run,  Thisbe. 

Eij}.  Well  shone,  moon. — Truly,  the  moon  shines  with  a 
good  grace. 

The.  Well  moused,  Lion. 

'[The  Lion  tears  Thisbe's  ynanile,  and  exit. 
Dem.  And  so  comes  Py ramus. 
Lys.    And  so  the  lion  vanished. 

Enter  Pyramus. 

Pyr.  "  Sweet  moon,  I  thank  thee  for  thy  sunny  beams. 
"  I  thank  thee,  moon,  for  shining  now  so  bright. 
"  For,  by  thy  gracious,  golden,  glitterijQg  streams, 
"I  trust  to  taste  of  truest  Thisby's  flight. 

"  But  stay  ;  —  0  spite  ! 

"  But  mark ;  —  Poor  knight, 


Act  v.]         MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  441 

"  What  dreadful  dole  is  here  i 
"Eyes,  do  you  see? 
"  How  can  it  be  ? 
"  0  dainty  duck  !  0  dear ! 
"  Thy  mantle  good, 
"  What,  stained  with  blood  ? 
"  Approach,  ye  furies  fell ! 
"  0  fates  !  come,  come ; 
"  Cut  thread  and  thrum  ; 
"  Quail,  crush,  conclude,  and  quell !  ' 
77ie.    This  passion,  and  the  death  of  a  dear  friend,  would 
go  near  to  make  a  man  look  sad. 

Mip.    Beshrew  my  heart,  but  I  pity  the  man. 
Pt/r.  "  0,  wherefore,  nature,  didst  thou  lions  frame  ? 
"  Since  lion  vile  hath  here  defloured  my  dear : 
"Which  is  —  no,  no  —  which  was  the  fairest  dame, 
"  That  lived,  that  loved,  that  liked,  that  looked  with  cheer 
"  Come,  tears,  confound. 
"  Out,  sword,  and  wound 
"  The  pap  of  Pyramus ; 
"  Ay,  that  left  pap, 
"  Where  heart  doth  hop ; 
"  Thus  die  I,  thus,  thus,  thus. 
"  Now  am  I  dead, 
"  Now  am  I  fled  ; 
*'My  soul  is  in  the  sky. 
"  Tongue,  lose  thy  light ! 
"Moon,  take  thy  flight! 
"Now  die,  die,  die,  die,  die." 

[^Dies.  — Uxit  Moon-shine. 

Dem.    No  die,  but  an  ace,  for  him ;  for  he  is  but  one. 

Lys.  Less  than  an  ace,  man ;  for  he  is  dead ;  he  is  nothing. 

The.  With  the  help  of  a  surgeon,  he  might  yet  recover, 

and  prove  an  ass. 

Hip.  How  chance  moon-shine  is  gone,  before  Thisbe  comes 
back  and  finds  her  lover  ? 

The.  She  will  find  him  by  star-light.  —  Here  she  comes; 
and  her  passion  ends  the  play. 

Unter  Thisbe. 

Bip.  Methinks,  she  should  not  use  a  long  one,  for  such 
a  Pyramus.     I  hope  she  will   be  brief. 

Dem.  A  mote  will  turn  the  balance,  which  Pyramus,  which 
Thisbe,  is  the  better. 

lfi/s.  She  hath  spied  him  already  with  those  sweet  eyes. 


442  MIDSUM3IEE-NIGHT'S  DREAM.         [Act  V 

Dem,    And  thus  she  moans,  videlicet. 

This.    "Asleep,  my  love? 
*'  What,  dead,  my  dove  ? 
"  0  Pyranius,  arise  ; 

"  Speak,  speak.     Quite  dumb  ? 
"  Dead,  dead  ?     A  tomb 
"Must  cover  thy  sweet  eyes. 
"  These  lily  brows, 
"  This  cherry  nose, 
"  These  yellow  cowslip  cheeks, 
"  Are  gone,  are  gone. 
"  Lovers,  make  moan  ! 
"  His  eyes  were  green  as  leeks. 
"  0  sisters  three, 
"  Come,  come,  to  me, 
*'  With  hands  as  pale  as  milk ; 
"Lay  them  in  gore, 
"  Since  you  have  shore 
"With  shears  his  thread  of  silk. 
"  Tongue,  not  a  word. — 
"  Come,  trusty  sword ; 
"  Come,  blade,  my  breast  imbrue, 
"And  fnrewell,  friends;  — 
"Thus  Thisby  ends. 
"Adieu,  adieu,  adieu."  \I)ie8, 

The.    Moonshine  and  lion  are  left  to  bury  the  dead. 
Dem.    Ay,  and  wall  too. 

Bot.  No,  I  assure  you ;  the  wall  is  down  that  parted  their 
fathers.  Will  it  please  you  to  see  the  epilogue,  or  to  hear 
a  Bergomask  dance,  between  two  of  our  company  ? 

The.  No  epilogue,  I  pray  you :  for  your  play  needs  no 
excuse.  Never  excuse ;  for  when  the  players  are  all  dead, 
there  need  none  to  be  blamed.  Marry,  if  he  that  writ  it, 
had  played  Pyramus,  and  hanged  himself  with  Thisbe's  gar 
ter,  it  would  have  been  a  tine  tragedy ;  and  so  it  is,  truly, 
and  very  notably  discharged.  But  come,  your  Bergomask. 
Let  your  epilogue  alone.  \_IIere  a  dance  of  Clowns 

The  iron  tongue  of  midnight  hath  told  twelve. — 
Lovers,  to  bed ;  'tis  almost  fairy  time. 
I  fear  we  shall  outsleep  the  coming  morn. 
As  much  as  we  this  night  have  overwatched. 
This  palpable-gross  play  hath  well  beguiled 
ITie  heavy  gait  of  night.  —  Sweet  friends,  to  bed 
A  fortnight  hold  we  this  solemnity 
In  nightly  revels,  and  new  jollity.  [I^xeunt. 


Act  v.]         MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  443 

SCENE  II. 

Enter  PucK. 

PucJc.    Now  the  hungry  lion  roars, 

And  the  wolf  behowls  the  moon ; 
Whilst  the  heavy  ploughman  snores. 

All  with  weary  task  foredone. 
Now  the  wasted  brands  do  glow, 

Whilst  the  screech-owl,  screeching  loud. 
Puts  the  wretch  that  lies  in  woe,  ^ 

In  remembrance  of  a  shroud. 
Now  it  is  the  time  of  night. 

That  the  graves  all  gaping  wide, 
Every  one  lets  forth  his  sprite. 

In  the  church-way  paths  to  glide; 
And  we  fairies,  that  do  run. 

By  the  triple  Hecate's  team, 
From  the  presence  of  the  sun. 

Following  darkness  like  a  dream, 
Now  are  frolic.     Not  a  mouse 
Shall  disturb  this  hallowed  house ; 
I  am  sent,  with  broom,  before. 
To  sweep  the  dust  behind  the  door. 

Unter  Oberon  and  Titania,  with  their  Train. 

Obe.    Through  this  house  give  glimmering  light, 

By  the  dead  and  drowsy  fire. 
Every  elf  and  fairy  sprite. 

Hop  as  light  as  bird  from  brier; 
And  this  ditty  after  me. 
Sing  and  dance  it  trippingly. 

Tita.    First,  rehearse  this  song  by  rote. 
To  each  word  a  warbling  note. 
Hand  in  hand,  with  fairy  grace. 
Will  we  sing,  and  bless  this  place. 

SONG    AND    DANCE. 

Obe.    Now,  until  the  break  of  day, 
Through  this  house  each  fairy  stray. 
To  the  best  bride-bed  will  we, 
Which  by  us  shall  blessed  be; 
And  the  issue,  there  create, 
Ever  shall  be  fortunate. 
So  shall  all  the  couples  three 
Ever  true  in  loving  be. 


444  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  [Act  V. 

And  the  blots  of  nature's  hand 
Shall  not  in  their  issue  stand; 
Never  mole,  hare-lip,  nor  scar, 
Nor  mark  prodigious,  such  as  are 
Despised  in  nativity, 
Shall  upon  their  children  be. — 
With  this  field-dew  consecrate. 
Every  fairy  take  his  gate ; 
And  each  several  chamber  bless, 
Through  this  palace  with  sweet  peace. 
E'er  shall  it  in  safety  rest, 
And  the  owner  of  it  blest. 

Trip  away ; 

Make  no  stay ; 
Meet  me  all  by  break  of  day. 

lUxeunt  Oberon,  Titania,  and  Train. 

Puck.  If  tve  shadoivs  have  offended, 

TJmik  but  this,  {and  all  is  mended,) 

That  you  have  hut  slumbered  here. 

While  these  visions  did  appear, 

And  this  weak  and  idle  theme, 

No  more  yielding  but  a  dream. 

G-entles,  do  not  reprehend; 

If  you  pardon,  we  will  mend. 

And,  as  I'm  an  honest  Puck, 

If  we  have  unearned  luck. 

Now  to  'scape  the  serpent's  tongue. 

We  will  make  amends,  ere  long ; 

Else  the  Puck  a  liar  call. 

So,  good  night  unto  you  all. 

Crive  me  your  hands,  if  we  be  friends, 

And  Bobin  shall  restore  amends.  [Exit. 


LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST, 


445 


PERSONS   REPRESENTED 

Ferdinand,  King  of  Navarre. 

BiRON,  ") 

LoNGAViLLE,  V  Lords,  attending  on  the  King. 

DUMAIN,  3 

Merca'de   I  ■^°^^^'  (Attending  on  the  Princess  of  France 
Don  Adriano  de  Armado,  a  fantastical  Spaniard. 
Sir  Nathaniel,  a  Curate. 
HoLOFERNES,  a  Schoolmaste" 
Dull,  a  Constahle. 
Costard,  a  Clown. 
Moth,  Page  to  Armado. 
A  Foresrer. 

Princess  of  France. 

Rosaline,     '\ 

Maria,  V  Ladies,  attending  on  the  Princess. 

Katharine,  ) 

Jaquenetta,  a  Country  Wench. 
Officers  and  others,  Attendants  on  the  King  and  Princess. 
SCENE.    Navarre. 


446 


LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST. 


ACT   I. 

iSCENE  I.     Navarre.     A  Park,  with  a  Palace  in  it. 
Enter  the  King,  BiRON,  Longaville,  and  Dumain. 

King.    Let  fame,  that  all  hunt  after  in  their  lives. 
Live  registered  upon  our  brazen  tombs, 
And  then  grace  us  in  the  disgrace  of  death; 

When,  spite  of  cormorant,  devouring  time,  Z  '  \.  ,-yUf''^^<'^ 

The  endeavor  of  this  present  breath  may  buy  .  - 

That  honor,  which  shall  bate  his  scythe's  keen  edge, 
And  make  us  heirs  of  all  eternity. 
Therefore,  brave  conquerors  !  —  for  so  you  are, 
That  war  against  your  own  affections. 
And  the  huge  army  of  the  world's  desires, — 
Our  late  edict  shall  strongly  stand  in  force. 
Navarre  shall  be  the  wonder  of  the  world ; 
Our  court  shall  be  a  little  Academe, 
Still  and  contemplative  in  living  art. 
You  three,  Biron,  Dumain,  and  Longaville, 
Have  sworn  for  three  years'  term  to  live  with  me, 
My  felloAv-scholars,  and  to  keep  those  statutes. 
That  are  recorded  in  this  schedule  here. 
Your  oaths  are  past,  and  now  subscribe  your  names; 
That  his  own  hand  may  strike  his  honor  down, 
That  violates  the  smallest  branch  herein. 
If  you  are  armed  to  do,  as  sworn  to  do. 
Subscribe  to  your  deep  oath,  and  keep  it  too. 

Long.    I  am  resolved.     'Tis  but  a  three  years'  fast; 
The  mind  shall  banquet,  though  the  body  pine. 
Fat  paunches  have  lean  pates ;  and  dainty  bits 
Make  rich  the  ribs,  but  bank'rout  quite  the  wits. 

Dum.    My  loving  lord,  Dumain  is  mortified ; 
The  grosser  manner  of  these  world's  delights 
He  throws  upon  the  grcss  world's  baser  slaves. 

(447i 


448  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  [Act  1 

To  love,  to  wealth,  to  pomp,  I  pine  and  die; 
With  all  these  living  in  pliilosophy. 

Biron.    I  can  but  say  their  protestation  over, 
So  much,  dear  liege,  I  have  already  sworn, 
That  is,  to  live  and  study  here  three  years. 
But  there  are  other  strict  observances; 
As,  not  to  see  a  woman  in  that  term ; 
Which,  I  hope  well,  is  not  enrolled  there ;  — 
And  one  day  in  a  week  to  touch  no  food, 
And  but  one  meal  on  every  day  beside ; 
The  which,  I  hope,  is  not  enrolled  there ;  — 
And  then,  to  sleep  but  three  hours  in  the  night, 
And  not  be  seen  to  wink  of  all  the  day ; 
(When  I  was  wont  to  think  no  harm  all  night. 
And  make  a  dark  night  too  of  half  the  day ;) 
Which,  I  hope  well,  is  not  enrolled  there. 
0,  these  are  barren  tasks,  too  hard  to  keep; 
Not  to  see  ladies  —  study  —  fast  —  not  sleep. 

King.    Your  oath  is  passed  to  pass  away  from  these. 

Biron.    Let  me  say  no,  my  liege,  an  if  you  pl-ease. 
I  only  swore  to  study  with  your  grace. 
And  stay  here  in  your  court  for  three  years'  space. 

Long.    You  swore  to  that,  Biron,  and  to  the  rest. 

Biron.    By  yea  and  nay,  sir,  then  I  swore  in  jest. 
What  is  the  end  of  study?     Let  me  know. 

King.   Why,  that   to  know,  which  else  we  should   not 
know. 

Biron.    Things  hid  and  barred,  you  mean,  from  common 
sense  ? 

King.    Ay,  that  is  study's  godlike  recompense. 

Biron.    Come  on  then ;  I  will  swear  to  study  so, 
To  know  the  thing  I  am  forbid  to  know. 
As  thus  —  To  study  where  I  well  may  dine, 

When  I  to  feast  expressly  am  forbid ; 
Or,  study  where  to  meet  some  mistress  fine. 

When  mistresses  from  common  sense  are  hid ; 
Or,  having  sworn  too  hard-a-keeping  oath, 
Study  to  break  it,  and  not  break  my  troth. 
If  study's  gain  be  thus,  and  this  be  so, 
Study  knows  that,  which  yet  it  doth  not  know. 
Swear  me  to  this,  and  I  will  ne'er  say,  no. 

King.    These  be  the  stops  that  hinder  study  quite, 
And  train  our  intellects  to  vain  delight. 

Biron.    Why,  all  delights  are  vain  ;  but  that  most  vain, 
Which,  with  pain  purchased,  doth  inherit  pain. 
As,  painfully  to  pore  upon  a  book, 


AcTl]  LOVE'S   LABOR'S    LOST.  449 

To  seek  the  light  of  truth ;  while  truth  the  "while 
Doth  falsely  blind  the  eyesight  of  his  look. 

Light,  seeking  light,  doth  light  of  light  beguile : 
So,  ere  you  find  where  light  in  darkness  lies, 
Your  light  grows  dark  by  losing  of  your  eyes. 
Study  me  how  to  please  the  eye  indeed, 

By  fixing  it  upon  a  fairer  eye ; 
Who  dazzling  so,  that  eye  shall  be  his  heed, 

And  give  him  light  that  it  was  blinded  by, 
Study  is  like  the  heaven's  glorious  sun. 

That  will  not  be  deep-searched  with  saucy  looks. 
Small  have  continual  plodders  ever  won, 

Save  base  authority  from  others'  books. 
These  earthly  godfathers  of  heaven's  lights, 
-  That  give  a  name  to  every  fixed  star, 
Have  no  more  profit  of  their  shining  nights. 

Than  those  that  walk,  and  wot  not  what  they  are. 
Too  much  to  know,  is,  to  know  nought  but  fame; 
And  every  godfather  can  give  a  name. 

King.    How  well  he's  read,  to  reason  against  reading ! 

Dum.    Proceeded  well,  to  stop  all  good  proceeding ! 

Long.    He  weeds  the  corn,  and  still  lets  grow  the  weeding. 

Biron.    The  spring  is  near,   when  green  geese   are  a- 
breeding. 

Dum.    How  follows  that? 

Biron.  Fit  in  his  place  and  time. 

Dum.    In  reason  nothing. 

Biron.  Something  then  in  rhyme. 

Long.    Biron  is  like  an  envious  sneaping  frost, 
That  bites  the  first-born  infants  of  the  spring. 

Biron.    Well,  say  I  am  ;  why  snould  proud  summer  boast, 
Before  the  birds  have  any  cause  to  sing? 
Why  should  I  joy  in  an  abortive  birth  ? 
At  Christmas  I  no  more  desire  a  rose. 
Than  wish  a  snow  in  May's  new-fangled  shows ; 
But  like  of  each  thing  that  in  season  grows. 
So  you  —  to  study  now  it  is  too  late  — 
Climb  o'er  the  house  to  unlock  the  little  gate. 

King.    Well,  sit  you  out.     Go  home,  Bir6n,  adieu  ! 

Biron.    No,  my  good  lord  ;  I  have  sworn  to  stay  with  you : 
And,  though  I  have  for  barbarism  spoke  more, 

Than  for  that  angel  knowledge  you  can  say, 
Yet  confident  I'll  keep  what  I  have  swore. 

And  bide  the  penance  of  each  three  years'  day. 
Cxive  mc  the  paper ;  let  me  read  the  same ; 
And  to  the  strict'st  decrees  I'll  write  my  name. 

Vol.  L  — 29  2n* 


450  LOVE'S    LABOR   S    LOST.  [Act  I. 

King     IIow  Avell  this  yielding  rescues  thee  from  shame ! 

Biron.    [^Jli'(ids.~\  Item,  That  no  woman  shall  r.omc  within 
a  mile  of  my  court.  —  ILith  this  been  prochiinied  ? 

Long.    Fouv  days  ago, 

Biron.    Let's  see  the  penalty.     [Rea^ls.^      On  pain  of 
losing  her  tongue.  —  Who  devised  this  penalty? 

Long.    Marry,  that  did  I. 

Biron.    Sweet  lord,  and  why  ? 

Long.    To  fright  them  hence  with  that  dread  penalty. 

Biron.    A  dangerous  law  against  gentility. 

[^lleads.^  Item,  If  a7iy  man  be  seen  to  talk  with  a  ivoman 
within  the  term  of  three  year's^  he  shall  eiidure  such  public 
shame  as  the  rest  of  the  court  can  possibly  devise. — 
This  article,  my  liege,  yourself  must  break.  „ 

For,  well  you  know,  here  comes  in  embassy 
The  French  king's  daughter,  with  yourself  to  speaK, — 

A  maid  of  grace,  and  complete  majesty, — 
About  surrender-up  of  Aquitain 

To  her  decrepit,  sick,  and  bed-rid  father. 
Therefore  this  article  is  made  in  vain. 

Or  vainly  comes  the  admired  princess  hither. 

King.  What  say  you,  lords  ?     Why.  this  was  quite  forgot. 

Birvn.    So  study  evermore  is  overshot : 
While  it  doth  study  to  have  what  it  would. 
It  doth  forget  to  do  the  thing  it  should  ; 
And  when  it  hath  the  thing  it  hunted  most, 
'Tis  won,  as  towns  with  fire ;  so  won,  so  lost. 

King.    We  must,  of  force,  dispense  with  this  decree; 
She  must  lie  here  on  mere  necessity. 

Biron.    Necessity  will  make  us  all  forsworn 

Three  thousand  times  within  this  three  years'  space. 

For  every  man  with  his  affects  is  born  ; 

Not  by  might  mastered,  but  by  special  grace. 
If  I  break  faith,  this  word  shall  speak  for  me, 
/  am  forsworn  on  mere  necessity. — 
So  to  the  laws  at  large  I  write  my  name.       [^Subscribes 

And  he  that  breaks  them  in  the  least  degree, 
Stands  in  attainder  of  eternal  shame. 

Suggestions  are  to  others  as  to  me ; 
I5ut,  I  believe,  although  I  seem  so  loath, 
I  am  the  last  that  will  last  keep  his  oath. 
But  is  there  no  quick  recreation  granted? 

King.  Ay,  that  there  is.    Our  court,  you  know,  is  haunted 
With  a'  refined  traveller  of  Spain ; 
A  man  in  all  the  world's  new  fashion  planted, 
That  hath  a  mint  of  phrases  in  his  brain ; 


AorL]  LOVE'S    LABOR'S    LOST.  151 

One  "whom  the  music  of  his  own  vain  tongue 

Doth  ravish,  like  enchanting  harmony ; 
A  man  of  complements,   whom  right  and  wrong 

Have  chose  as  umpire  of  their  mutiny. 
This  child  of  fancy,  that  Armado  hight, 

For  interim  to  our  studies,  shall  relate. 
In  high-born  words,  the  worth  of  many  a  knight 

From  tawny  Spain,  lost  in  the  world's  debate. 
How  you  delight,  my  lords,  I  know  not,  I ; 
But,  I  protest,  I  love  to  hear  him  lie. 
And  I  will  use  him  for  my  minstrelsy. 

Biron.    Armado  is  a  most  illustrious  wight, 
A  man  of  fire-new  words,  fashion's  own  knight. 

Long.    Costard  the  swain,  and  he,  shall  be  our  sport ; 
And,  so  to  study,  three  years  is  but  short. 

Enter  Dull,  with  a  Letter,  and  Costakd,  ''J-c^t^P^ 

Dull.    Which  is  the  duke's  own  person? 

Biron.    This,  fellow.     What  would'st  ? 

Dull.  I  myself  reprehend  his  own  person,  for  I  am  hig 
grace's  tharborough ;  but  I  would  see  his  own  person  in 
flesh  and  blood. 

Biron.    This  is  he. 

Dull.  Seignior  Arme — Arme — commends  you.  There's 
villany  abroad ;  this  letter  will  tell  you  more. 

Cost.    Sir,  the  contempts  thereof  are  as  touching  me. 

King.    A  letter  from  the  magnificent  Armado. 

Biron.  How  low  soever  the  matter,  I  hope  in  God  for 
nigh  words. 

Long.  A  high  hope  for  a  low  having  !  God  grant  us 
patience ! 

Biron.    To  hear,  or  forbear  hearing? 

Long.  To  hear  meekly,  sir,  and  to  laugh  moderately ;  or 
to  forbear  both. 

Biron.  Well,  sir,  be  it  as  the  style  shall  give  us  cause  to 
climb  in  the  merriness. 

Qost.  The  matter  is  to  me,  sir,  as  concerning  Jaquenetta. 
The  manner  of  it  is,  I  was  taken  with  the  manner. 

Biron.    In  what  manner  ? 

Cost.    In  manner  and  form  following,  sir ;  all  those  three.    /  /^f-  U'-     ' 
I  was  seen  with  her  in  the  manor  house,  sitting  with  her  (  V^      i       ^L 
upon  the  form,  and  taken  following  her  into  tlie  park  ;  which, 
put  together, 'is,  in  manner  and  form  following.     Noav,  sir, 
for  the  manner, —  it  is  the  manner  of  a  man  to  speak  to  a, 
woman ;  for  the  form,  in  some  form. 

Biron.    For  the  following,  sir? 


452  l.OVE'S    LAEOK'S    LOST.  [Act  1 

Cost.  As  It  shall  follow  in  my  correction  ;  and  God  defend 
the  riglit ! 

King.    Will  you  hear  this  letter  with  attention  ? 

Biron.    As  we  would  hear  an  oracle. 

Cost.  Such  is  the  simplicity  of  man  to  hearken  after  tho 
flesh. 

Kino-.  [^Reach.~\  Great  deputy,  the  welkin's  vicegerent, 
and  sole  dominator  of  Navarre,  my  soul's  earth's  Grod,  and 
body's  fostering  patron, — 

Cost.    Not  a  word  of  Costard  yet. 

King.    So  it  is, — 

Cost.  It  may  be  so ;  but  if  he  say  it  is  so,  he  is,  in  tell 
ing  true,  but  so,  so. 

King   Peace. 

Cogt.    — be  to  me,  and  every  man  that  dares  not  fight ! 

King.   No  words. 

Cost.    — of  other  men's  secrets,  I  beseech  you. 

King.  So  it  is,  besieged  with  sable-colored  melancholy,  1 
did  commend  the  black-oppressing  humor  to  the  most  whole- 
some physic  of  thy  health-giving  air  ;  and,  as  I  am  a  gen- 
tleman, betook  myself  to  tvalk.  The  time  tvhen?  About 
the  sixth  hour  ;  ivhe7i  beasts  onost  graze,  birds  best  peck,  and 
men  sit  dotvn  to  that  nourishment  which  is  called  supper. 
So  much  for  the  time  when.  Now  for  the  ground  lohich  ; 
which,  I  mean,  Iioalked  upon  ;  it  is  ycleped  thy  park.  Then 
for  the  place  ivhere  ;  where,  I  mean,  I  did  encounter  that 
obscene  and  most  p)reposterous  event,  that  draweth  from  my 
snow-white  pen  tit e  ebon-colored  ink,  which  here  thou  view- 
est,  beholdest,  surveyest,  or  seest.  But  to  the  place  where, — 
It  standeth  north-north-east  and  by  east  from  theivest  corner 
of  thy  curious-knotted  garden.  There  did  I  see  that  low- 
spirited  Sivain,  that  base  minnow  of  my  mirth, 

Cost.   Me. 

King.  —  that  unlettered,  small-knowing  soul, 

Cost.   Me. 

King.  —  that  shallow  vassal. 
Cost.    Still  me. 

King. — ivhich,  as  I  remember,  hight  Costard, 
Cost.    0  me ! 

King.  —  sorted  and  consorted,  contrary  to  thy  established, 
proclaimed  edict  and  continent  canon,  toith — with, — 0  loith 
— lilt  toith  this  I  passion  to  say  wheretoith, 
Cost.    With  a  wench. 

King.  —  with  a  child  of  our  grandmother  Eve,  a  female  ; 
or,  for  thy  more  siveet  understanding,  a  ivoman.  Him  1 
(as  my  ever-esteemed  duty  pricks  me  on)  have  sent  to  thee, 


A.CTI.J  LOVE  S   LABOR'S   LOST.  453 

to  receive-  the  meed  of  punisJwient,  hy  thy  sweet  grace's 
officer,  Antony  Dull;  a  man  of  good  repute^  carriage^  hear- 
ing, and  estimation. 

Dull.    Me,  an't  shall  please  you ;  I  am  Aatouy  Dull. 

King.  For  Jaquenetta,  {so  is  the  weaker  vessel  called, 
whijh  I  apprehended  with  the  aforesaid  sivain,)  I  keep  her 
as  a  vessel  of  thy  law's  fury  ;  and  shall,  at  the  least  of  thy 
sweet  notice,  bring  her  to  trial.  Thine,  in  all  compliments 
of  devoted  and  heart-burning  heat  of  duty, 

Don  Adriano  de  Armado. 

Biron.  This  is  not  so  well  as  I  looked  for,  but  the  best 
*;hat  ever  I  heard. 

King.    Ay,  the  best  for  the  worst.    But,  sirrah,  what  say 
ou  to  this  ? 

Cost.    Sir,  I  confess  the  wench. 

King.    Did  you  hear  the  proclamation  ? 

Cost.  I  do  confess  much  of  the  hearing  it,  but  little  of 
the  marking  of  it. 

King.  It  was  proclaimed  a  year's  imprisonment,  to  be 
taken  with  a  wench. 

Cost.  I  was  taken  with  none,  sir.  I  was  taken  with  a 
damosel. 

King.    Well,  it  was  proclaimed  damosel. 

Cost.    This  was  no  damosel  neither,  sir ;  she  was  a  virgin. 

King.    It  is  so  varied  too  ;  for  it  was  proclaimed  virgin. 

Cost.  If  it  were,  I  deny  her  virginity.  I  was  taken  with 
a  maid. 

King.    This  maid  will  not  serve  your  turn,  sir. 

Cost.    This  maid  will  serve  my  turn,  sir. 

King.    Sir,  I  will  pronounce  your  sentence; 
You  shall  fast  a  week  with  bran  and  water. 

Cost.  I  had  rather  pray  a  month  with  mutton  and  por- 
ridge. 

King.    And  Don  Arraado  shall  be  your  keeper. — 
My  lord  Biron,  see  him  delivered  o'er. — 
And  go  we,  lords,  to  put  in  practice  that 
Which  each  to  other  hath  so  strongly  sworn. — 

\_Exeunt  Longaville  and  Dumain. 

Biron.    I'll  lay  my  head  to  any  good  man's  hat. 

These  oaths  and  laws  will  prove  an  idle  scorn. — 
Sirrah,  come  on. 

Cost.  I  suffer  for  the  truth,  sir ;  for  true  it  is,  I  was  taken 
with  Jaquenetta,  and  Jaquenetta  is  a  true  girl ;  and  there- 
fore, welcome  the  sour  cup  of  prosperity !  Affliction  may 
one  day  smile  again,  and  till  then,  sit  thee  d  )wn,  sorrow ! 

[Exeunt. 


454  LOVE  S   LABOR'S   LOST.  [Act  1 

SCENE   (L     Another  part  of  the  same.    Armado's  jffbws^. 
Enter  Abmado  ayid  Moth. 

Arm.  Boy,  what  sign  is  it,  when  a  man  of  great  spirit 
grows  melanrholy. 

Moth.    A  great  sign,  sir,  that  he  will  look  sad. 

Arm.  Why,  sadness  is  one  and  the  self-same  thing,  dear 
imp. 

Moth.    No,  no ;  0  lord,  sir,  no. 

Arm.  How  canst  thou  part  sadness  and  melancholy,  my 
tender  juvenal? 

3Ioth.  By  a  familiar  demonstration  of  the  working,  my 
tough  senior. 

Arm.    Why  tough  senior  ?     Why  tough  senior  ? 

3Ioth.    Why  tender  juvenal  ?  why  tender  juvenal  ? 

Arm.  I  spoke  it,  tender  juvenal,  as  a  congruent  epithe- 
ton,  appertaining  to  thy  young  days,  which  we  may  nomi- 
nate tender. 

Moth.  And  I,  tough  senior,  as  an  appertinent  title  to  your 
old  time,  which  we  may  name  tough. 

Arm.    Pretty,  and  apt. 

Moth.  How  mean  you,  sir?  I  pretty,  and  my  saying 
apt  ?  or  I  apt,  and  my  saying  pretty  ? 

Arm.    Thou  pretty,  because  little. 

Moth.    Little  pretty,  because  little.     Wherefore  apt? 

Arm.    And  therefore  apt,  because  quick. 

Moth.    Speak  you  this  in  my  praise,  master  ? 

Arm.    In  thy  condign  praise^  '^^^\OJA^] 

Moth.    I  will  praise  an  eel  with  the  same  praise. 

Arm.    What  ?  that  an  eel  is  ingenious  ? 

Moth.    That  an  eel  is  quick. 

Arm.    I  do  say  thou  art  quick  in  answers. 
Thou  heatest  my  blood. 

Moth.    I  am  answered,  sir. 

Arm.    I  love  not  to  be  crossed. 

Moth.   He  speaks  the  mere  contrary ;  crosses  love  not  him 

\_Aside 

Arm.   I  ha^  e  promised  to  study  three  years  with  the  duke 

Moth.    You  may  do  it  in  an  hour,  sir. 

Arm.    Impossible. 

Moth     How  many  is  one  thrice  told? 

Arm.  I  am  ill  at  reckoning;  it  fitteth  the  spirit  of  a 
tapster. 

Moth.    You  are  a  gentleman  and  a  gamester,  sir. 


ActL]  LOVE'S    LABOR'S    LOST.  455 

Arm.  I  confess  both ;  they  are  both  the  varnish  of  a 
complete  man. 

Moth.  Then  I  am  sure  you  know  how  much  the  gross 
sum  of  deuce-ace  amounts  to. 

Arm.    It  doth  amount  to  one  more  than  two. 

Moth.    Which  the  base  vulgar  do  call  three. 

Arm.    True. 

Moth.  Why,  sir,  is  this  such  a  piece  of  study?  Not(9 
here  is  three  studied,  ere  you'll  thrice  wink ;  and  how  easy 
it  is  to  put  years  to  the  word  three,  and  study  three  years 
in  two  words,  the  dancing  \oy%q  will  tell  you.      "w-cX-  T-t^tPt^ 

Arm.    A  most  fine  figure  ! 

Moth.    To  prove  you  a  cipher.  [^Aside. 

Arm.  I  will  hereupon  confess,  I  am  in  love ;  and,  as  it  is 
base  for  a  soldier  to  love,  so  am  I  in  love  with  a  base  wench. 
If  drawing  my  sword  against  the  humor  of  affection  would 
deliver  me  from  the  reprobate  thought  of  it,  I  would  take 
desire  prisoner,  and  ransom  him  to  any  French  courtier  for 
a  new-devised  courtesy.  I  think  scorn  to  sigh  ;  methinks  I 
should  outswear  Cupid.  Comfort  me,  boy.  What  great 
men  have  been  in  love  ? 

Moth.    Hercules,  master. 

Arm.  Most  sweet  Hercules  ! — More  authority,  dear  boy, 
name  more ;  and,  sweet  my  child,  let  them  be  men  of  good 
repute  and  carriage. 

Moth.  Samson,  master.  He  was  a  man  of  good  carriage, 
great  carriage !  For  he  carried  the  town-gates  on  his  back, 
like  a  porter ;  and  he  was  in  love. 

Arm.  0  well-knit  Samson !  strong-jointed  Samson !  I 
do  excel  thee  in  my  rapier,  as  much  as  thou  didst  me  in 
carrying  gates.  I  am  in  love  too. — Who  was  Samson's 
love,  my  dear  Moth  ? 

Moth.    A  woman,  master. 

Ar77i.    Of  what  complexion  ? 

Moth.  Of  all  the  four,  or  the  three,  or  the  two,  or  one 
of  the  four. 

Arm.    Tell  me  precisely  of  what  complexion? 

Moth.    Of  the  sea-water  green,  sir. 

Arm.    Is  that  one  of  the  four  complexions  ? 

Moth.  As  I  have  read,  sir ;  and  the  best  of  them 
too. 

A7-m.  Green,  indeed,  is  the  color  of  lovers ;  but  to  have 
a  love  of  that  color,  methinks  Samson  had  small  reason  for 
it.     He,  surely,  affected  her  for  her  wit. 

Moth.    It  was  so,  sir  ;  for  she  had  a  green  wit. 

Arm.    My  love  is  most  immaculate  white  and  red. 


456  LOVE'S    LABOll'S    LOST.  [Act  L 

3fotJi.   Most  maculate  thoughts,  master,  are  masked  under 
such  colors. 

Arm.    Define,  define,  well-educated  infant. 
Moth.  My  father's  wit,  and  my  mother's  tongue,  assist  me 
Arm.    Sweet   invocation    of  a  child;    most   pretty,  and 
pathetical ! 

Moth.    If  she  be  made  of  Avhite  and  red, 
Her  faults  will  ne'er  be  known; 
For  blushing  cheeks  by  faults  are  bred. 

And  fears  by  pale  white  shown. 
Then,  if  she  fear,  or  be  to  blame, 

By  this  you  shall  not  know ; 
For  still  her  cheeks  possess  the  same, 
Which  native  she  doth  owe. 
A  dangerous  rhyme,  master,  against  the  reason  of  white  and 
red. 

Arm.    Is  there  not  a  ballad,  boy,  of  the  King  and  the 


ar 


Begg 

Moth.  The  Avorld  was  very  guilty  of  such  a  ballad  some 
three  ages  since.  But,  I  think,  now  'tis  not  to  be  found ; 
or,  if  it  were,  it  would  neither  serve  for  the  writing,  nor 
the  tune. 

Artn.  I  will  have  the  subject  newly  writ  o'er,  that  I  may 
example  my  digression  by  some  mighty  precedent.  Boy, 
I  do  love  that  country  girl,  that  I  took  in  the  park  with 
the  rational  hind  Costard:  she  deserves  well. 

Moth.  To  be  whipped ;  and  yet  a  better  love  than  my 
master.        _  [Aside. 

Arm.    Sing,  boy;  my  spirit  grows  heavy  in  love. 

Moth.    And  that's  great  marvel,  loving  a  light  wench. 

Arm.    1  say,  sing. 

Moth.    Forbear  till  this  company  be  past. 

Unter  Dull,  Costard,  and  Jaquenetta. 

Dull  Sir,  the  duke's  pleasure  is,  that  you  keep  Costard 
safe ;  and  you  must  let  him  take  no  delight,  nor  no  penance ; 
but  a'must  fast  three  days  a-week.  For  this  damsel,  I  must 
keep  her  at  the  park ;  she  is  allowed  f^r  the  day-woman. 
Fare  you  well. 

Arm.    I  do  betray  myself  with  blushing.  —  Maid — 

Jaq.    Man. 

Arm.    I  will  visit  thee  at  the  lodge. 

Jaq.    That's  hereby. 

Arm.    I  know  where  it  is  situate. 

Jaq.    Lord,  how  wise  you  are  ! 

Arm.    I  will  tell  thee  wonders. 


Act!.]  LOY  E' S    L  ABOR' S    LOST  45T 

Jaq.    With  tliat  face  ? 

Arm.    I  love  thee. 

Jaq.    So  I  heard  you  say. 

Arm.    And  so  farewell. 

Jaq.    Fair  weather  after  you ! 

Dull.    Come,  Jaquenetta,  away. 

\_Exeunt  Dull  and  Jaqlenetta. 

Arm.  Villain,  thou  shalt  fast  for  thy  offences,  ere  thou 
be  pardoned. 

Cost.  Well,  sir,  I  hope,  when  I  do  it,  I  shall  do  it  on 
a  full  stomach. 

Arm.    Thou  shalt  be  heavily  punished. 

Cost.  I  am  more  bound  to  you,  than  your  fellows,  for 
they  are  but  lightly  rewarded. 

Arm.    Take  away  this  villain.     Shut  him  up. 

Moth.    Come,  you  transgressing  slave ;  away. 

Cost.  Let  me  not  be  pent  up,  sir ;  I  will  fast,  being 
loose. 

Moth.  No,  sir;  that  were  fast  and  loose.  Thoa  shalt  to 
prison. 

Cost.  Well,  if  ever  I  do  see  the  merry  days  of  desolation 
that  I  have  seen,  some  shall  see  — 

Moth.   What  shall  some  see  ? 

Cost.  ,Nay,  nothing,  master  Moth,  but  what  they  look 
upon.  It  is  not  for  prisoners  to  be  too  silent  in  their  words; 
and,  therefore,  I  will  say  nothing.  I  thank  God,  I  have 
as  little  patience  as  another  man  ;  and,  therefore,  I  can  be 
quiet.  [Exeimt  Moth  and  Costard. 

Arm.  I  do  affect  the  very  ground,  which  is  base,  where 
her  shoe,  which  is  baser,  guided  by  her  foot,  which  is  basest, 
doth  tread.  I  shall  be  forsworn,  (which  is  a  great  argument 
of  falsehood,)  if  I  love.  And  how  can  that  be  true  love, 
which  is  falsely  attempted  ?  Love  is  a  familiar ;  love  is  a 
devil :  there  is  no  evil  angel  but  love.  Yet  Samson  was  so 
tempted  ;  and  he  had  an  excellent  strength.  Yet  was  Solo- 
mon so  seduced ;  and  he  had  a  very  good  Avit.  Cupid's 
butt-shaft  is  too  hard  for  Hercules'  club,  and  therefore  too 
much  odils  for  a  Spaniard's  rapier.  The  first  and  second 
cause  will  not  serve  my  turn ;  the  passado  he  respects  not, 
the  duello  he  regards  not.  His  disgrace  is  to  be  called  boy ; 
but  his  glory  is  to  subdue  men.  Adieu,  valor  !  rust,  rapier ! 
be  still,  drum  !  for  your  manager  is  in  love ;  yea,  he  loveth. 
Assist  me,  some  cxtemporal  god  of  rhyme,  for,  I  am  sure, 
I  shall  turn  sonnetteer.  Devise,  wit !  write,  pen  !  for  I  am 
for  whole  volumes  in  folio.  [Exit. 

2o 


458  LOVPVS    LABOR   S   LOST.  [Act  IL 

ACT    II. 

SCENE  I      Anotlier  part  of  the  same.     A  Pavilion  and 
Tents  at  a  distance.. 

Enter  the  Princess  of  France,  Rosaline,  Maria,  Katha- 
rine, BoYET,  Lords,  and  other  Attendants. 

Boyet.    Now,  madam,  summon  up  your  dearest  spirits. 
Consider  who  the  king  your  father  sends ; 
To  whom  he  sends ;  and  what's  his  embassy ; 
Yourself,  hehl  precious  in  the  world's  esteem, 
To  parley  with  the  sole  inheritor 
Of  all  perfections  that  a  man  may  owe, 
Matchless  Navarre ;  the  plea  of  no  less  weight 
Than  Aquitain ;  a  dowry  for  a  queen. 
Be  now  as  prodigal  of  all  dear  grace. 
As  nature  was  in  making  graces  dear, 
When  she  did  starve  the  general  world  beside. 
And  prodigally  gave  them  all  to  you. 

Pi'in.    Good  lord  Boyet,  my  beauty,  though  but  mean. 
Needs  not  the  painted  flourish  of  your  praise. 
Beauty  is  bought  by  judgment  of  the  eye. 
Not  uttered  by  base  sale  of  chapmen's  tongues. 
I  am  less  proud  to  hear  you  tell  my  worth. 
Than  you  much  willing  to  be  counted  wise 
In  spending  your  wit  in  the  praise  of  mine. 
But  now  to  task  the  tasker,  —  Good  Boyet, 
You  are  not  ignorant,  all-telling  fame 
Doth  noise  abroad,  Navarre  hath  made  a  vow, 
Till  painful  study  shall  out-Avear  three  years, 
No  woman  may  approach  his  silent  court. 
Therefore  to  us  seemeth  it  a  needful  course, 
Before  we  enter  his  forbidden  gates, 
To  know  his  pleasure ;  and  in  that  behalf. 
Bold  of  your  worthiness,  we  single  you 
As  our  best-moving  fair  solicitor. 
Tell  him  the  daughter  of  the  king  of  France, 
On  serious  business,  craving  quick  despatch, 
Importunes  personal  conference  with  his  grace. 
Haste,  signify  so  much ;  while  we  attend. 
Like  humbly-visaged  suitors,  his  high  will. 

Boyet.    Proud  of  employment,  willingly  I  go.        [Exit 

Prin.    All  pride  is  willing  pride;  and  yours  is  so. — 
WTio  are  the  votaj^ps,  my  loving  lords, 
That  are  vow-fePows  with  this  virtuous  duke? 


Act  II.]         LOVE'S    LABOK'S    LOST.  459 

1  Lord.    Longaville  is  one. 

Prin-  Know  you  the  man? 

Mary^  know  him,  madam.     At  a  marriage  feast, 
Between  lord  Perigort  and  the  beauteous  heir 
Of  Jaques  Falconbridge,  solemnized 
In  Normandy,  saw  I  this  Longaville. 
A  man  of  sovereign  parts  he  is  esteemed; 
Well  fitted  in  the  arts,  glorious  in  arms ; 
Nothing  becomes  him  ill,  that  he  would  well. 
The  only  soil  of  his  fair  virtue's  gloss 
(If  virtue's  gloss  Avill  stain  with  any  soil) 
Is  a  sharp  wit  matched  with  too  blunt  a  will : 
Whose  edge  hath  power  to  cut,  whose  will  still  wills 
It  should  none  spare  that  come  within  his  power. 

Prin.    Some  merry  mocking  lord,  belike  ;  is't  so? 

3Iar.    They  say  so  most,  that  most  his  humors  know. 

Prin.    Such  short-lived  wits  do  wither  as  they  grow. 
W^ho  are  the  rest  ? 

KatJi.    The  young  Dumain,  a  well-accomplished  youth 
Of  all  that  virtue  love  for  virtue  loved ; 
Most  power  to  do  most  harm,  least  knowing  ill ; 
For  he  hath  wit  to  make  an  ill  shape  good. 
And  shape  to  win  grace  though  he  had  no  wit. 
I  saw  him  at  the  duke  Alencon's  once ; 
And  much  too  little  of  that  good  I  saw, 
Is  my  report,  to  his  great  worthiness. 

Ros.    Another  of  these  students  at  that  time 
Was  there  with  him.     If  I  have  heard  a  truth, 
Biron  they  call  him ;  but  a  merrier  man, 
Within  the  limit  of  becoming  mirth, 
I  never  spent  an  hour's  talk  withal. 
His  eye  begets  occasion  for  his  wit ; 
For  every  object  that  the  one  doth  catch, 
The  other  turns  to  a  mirth-moving  jest ; 
Which  his  fair  tongue  (conceit's  expositor) 
Delivers  in  such  apt  and  gracious  words, 

That  aged  ears  play  truant  at  his  tales,  . 

And  younger  hearings  are  quite  ravished.  '  J lt~    M-^*-^^  /  ' 

So  sweet  and  voluble  is  his  discourse.  "^^^^^    "      ^/^L^^^^pc^^-f*"*"'^ 

Prin.    God  bless  my  ladies !  are  they  all  in  love, 
That  every  one  her  own  hath  garnished 
With  such  bedecking  ornaments  of  praise  ? 

Mar.    Here  comes  Boyet. 

He-enter  Boyet. 
Prin.  Now,  what  admittance,  lord? 


i60  LOVE'S    LABOR'S    LOST.         [Act  II 

Boyct.    Navarre  had  notice  of  your  f;iir  approach ; 
And  he,  and  his  competitors  in  oath, 
Were  all  addressed  to  meet  you,  gentle  lad}'-. 
Before  I  came.     Marry,  thus  much  have  I  learnt; 
He  rather  means  to  lodge  you  in  the  field, 
(Like  one  that  comes  here  to  besiege  his  couri,) 
Than  seek  a  dispensation  for  his  oath, 
To  let  you  enter  his  unpeopled  house. 
Here  comes  Navarre.  [^The  ladies  mask 

Enter  King,  Longaville,  Dumain,  Biron,  awc^  Attendants. 

King.    Fair  princess,  welcome  to  the  court  of  Navarre. 

Prin.  Fair,  I  give  you  back  again  ;  and,  welcome  I  have 
not  yet.  The  roof  of  this  court  is  too  high  to  be  yours ; 
and  welcome  to  the  wild  fields  too  base  to  be  mine. 

King.    You  shall  be  welcome,  madam,  to  my  court. 

Prin.    I  will  be  welcome  then  ;  conduct  me  thither. 

King.    Hear  me,  dear  lady  ;  I  have  sworn  an  oath. 

Prin.    Our  lady  help  my  lord  !     He'll  be  forsworn. 

King.    Not  for  the  world,  fair  madam,  by  my  will. 

Prin.    Why,  will  shall  break  it;  will,  and  nothing  else. 

King.    Your  ladyship  is  ignorant  what  it  is. 

Prin.    Were  my  lord  so,  his  ignorance  were  wise, 
Where  now  his  knowledge  must  prove  ignorance. 
I  hear  your  grace  has  sworn-out  house-keeping. 
'Tis  deadly  sin  to  keep  that  oath,  my  lord, 
And  sin  to  break  it. 
But  pardon  me,  I  am  too  sudden-bold; 
To  teach  a  teacher  ill  beseemeth  me. 
Vouchsafe  to  read  the  purpose  of  my  coming, 
And  suddenly  resolve  me  in  my  suit.        [^Gives  a  paper 

King.    Madam,  I  will,  if  suddenly  I  may. 

Prin.    You  will  the  sooner,  that  I  were  away; 
For  you'll  prove  perjured,  if  you  make  me  stay. 

Biron.    Did  not  I  dance  with  you  in  Brabant  once? 

Mos.    Did  not  I  dance  with  you  in  Brabant  once? 

Biron.    I  know  you  did. 

Bos.  How  needless  was  it  then 

To  ask  the  question ! 

Biron.  You  must  not  be  so  quick. 

B.oH.  'Tis  'long  of  you  that  spur  me  with  such  questions. 

Biron.  Your  wit's  too  hot;  it  speeds  too  fast;  'twill  tire. 

Ros.    Not  till  it  leave  the  rider  in  the  mire. 

Biron.    What  time  o'  day  ? 

Ros.    The  hour  that  fools  should  ask 

Biron.    Now  fair  befall  your  mask  ! 


ActTI.J  L  GAME'S    LABOR'S   lost.  461 

Ros.    Fail   fall  the  face  it  covers ! 

Biron.    And  send  you  many  lovers  ! 

Ros.    Amen,  so  you  be  none. 

Biron.    Nay,  then  will  I  be  gone. 

King.    Madam,  your  father  here  doth  intimate 
The  payment  of  a  hundred  thousand  crowns; 
Being  but  the  one  half  of  an  entire  sum, 
Disbursed  by  my  father  in  his  wars. 
But  say,  that  he,  or  we,  (as  neither  have,) 
Received  that  sum ;  yet  there  remains  unpaid 
A  hundred  thousand  more ;  in  surety  of  the  which, 
One  part  of  Aquitain  is  bound  to  us. 
Although  not  valued  to  the  money's  worth. 
If  then  the  king  your  father  will  restore 
But  that  one  half  which  is  unsatisfied. 
We  will  give  up  our  right  in  Aquitain, 
And  hold  fair  friendship  with  his  majesty. 
But  that,  it  seems,  he  little  purposeth. 
For  here  he  doth  demand  to  have  repaid 
A  hundred  thousand  crowns;  and  not  demands, 
On  payment  of  a  hundred  thousand  crowns. 
To  have  his  title  live  in  Aquitain ; 
Which  we  much  rather  had  depart  withal, 
And  have  the  money  by  our  father  lent, 
Than  Aquitain  so  gelded  as  it  is. 
Dear  princess,  were  not  his  requests  so  far 
From  reason's  yielding,  your  fair  self  should  make 
A  yielding  'gainst  some  reason,  in  my  breast. 
And  go  well  satisfied  to  France  again. 

Prin.    You  do  the  king  my  father  too  much  wrong, 
And  wrong  the  reputation  of  your  name, 
In  so  unseeming  to  confess  receipt 
Of  that  which  hath  so  faithfully  been  paid. 

King.    I  do  protest,  I  never  heard  of  it ; 
And,  if  you  prove  it,  I'll  repay  it  back, 
Or  yield  up  Aquitain. 

Frin.  We  arrest  your  word. — 

Boyet,  you  can  produce  acquittances, 
For  such  a  sum,  from  special  oflficers 
Of  Charles  his  father. 

King.  Satisfy  me  so. 

Boyet.    So  please  your  grace,  the  packet  is  not  noine, 
Where  that  and  other  specialties  are  bound. 
To-morrow  you  shall  have  a  sight  of  them. 

King.    It  shall  suffice  me ;  at  which  interview. 
All  liberal  reason  I  will  yield  unto, 
20* 


462  LOYF/S    LABOR'S    LOST.  [Act  If 

Mean  time,  receive  such  welcome  at  my  hand, 

As  honor,  without  breach  of  honor,  may 

Make  tender  of  to  thy  true  worthiness. 

You  may  not  come,  fair  princess,  in  my  gates ; 

But  here  without  you  shall  be  so  received. 

As  you  shall  deem  yourself  lodged  in  my  heart, 

Though  so  denied  fair  harbor  in  my  house. 

Your  own  good  thoughts  excuse  me,  and  farewell. 

To-morrow  shall  we  visit  you  again. 

Prin.    Sweet  health  and  fair  desires  consort  your  graue ! 

King.    Thy  own  wish  wish  I  thee  in  every  place ! 

[Exeunt  King  and  Ids  Train. 

Biron.    Lady,  I  will  commend  you  to  my  own  heart. 

Ros.    'Pray  you,  do  my  commendations ;  I  would  be  glad 
to  see  it. 

Biron.    I  would  you  heard  it  groan. 

Ros.    Is  the  fool  sick  ? 

Biron.    Sick  at  the  heart.  ^ 

Ros.    Alack,  let  it  blood. 

Biron.    Would  that  do  it  good? 

Ros.    My  Physic  says,  I. 

Biron.    Will  you  prick't  with  your  eye  ? 

Ros.    No  point,  with  my  knife. 

Biron.    Now,   God  save  thy  life ! 

Ros.    And  yours  from  long  living  ! 

Biron.    I  cannot  stay  thanksgiving,  [Retiring. 

Bum.    Sir,  I  pray  you,  a  word.    What  lady  is  that  same  ? 

Boyet.    The  heir  of  Aleneon,   Rosaline  her  name. 

Bum.    A  gallant  lady  !     Monsieur,  fare  you  well.  [Exit. 

Long.    I  beseech  you,  a  Avord.    What  is  she  in  the  white  ? 

Boyet.    A  woman  sometimes,  an  you  sa.w  her  in  the  light. 

Long.    Perchance,  light  in  the  light.     I  desire  her  name. 

Boyet.    She  hath  but  one  for  herself;  to  desire  that,  were 
a  shame. 

Long.    Pray  you,  sir,  whose  daughter? 

Boyet.    Her  mother's,  I  have  heard. 

Long.    God's  blessing  on  your  beard ! 

Boyet.    Good  sir,  be  not  offended. 
She  is  ar.  heir  of  Palconbridge. 

Long.    Nay,  my  cholcr  is  ended. 
She  is  a  most  sweet  lady. 

Boyet.    Not  unlike,  sir ;  that  may  be.  [Exit  LoNG. 

Biron.    What's  her  name,  in  the  cap  ? 

Boyet.    Katharine,  by  good  hap 

Biron.    Is  she  wedded,  or  no  ? 

Boyet.    To  her  will,  sir,  or  so. 


ActII.1         LOVE'S    LABOR'S    LOST.  463 

Biron.    You  are  welcome,  sir ;  adieu  ! 

Boyet.    Farewell  to  me,  sir,  and  welcome  to  you. 

\_Exit  BiROX. — Ladies  U7imask 

Mar.    That  last  is  Biron,  the  merry,  mad-cap  lord ; 
N  )t  a  word  with  him  but  a  jest. 

Boyet.  And  every  jest  but  a  word. 

Prin.    It  was  well  done  of  you  to  take  him  at  his  word. 

Boyet.    I  was  as  willing  to  grapple,  as  he  was  to  board. 

Mar.    Two  hot  sheeps,  marry  ! 

Boyet.  And  wherefore  not  ships  ? 

No  sheep,  sweet  lamb,  unless  we  feed  on  your  lips. 

Mar.  You  sheep,  and  I  pasture ;  shall  that  finish  the  jest  ? 

Boyet.    So  you  grant  pasture  for  me. 

\_Offering  to  kiss  lier. 

Mar.  Not  so,  gentle  beast ; 

My  lips  are  no  common,  tliough  several  they  be. 

Boyet.    Belonging  to  whom  ? 

Mar.  To  my  fortunes  and  me. 

Prin.    Good  wits  will  be  jangling,  but,  gentles,  agree ; 
The  civil  war  of  wits  were  much  better  used 
On  Navarre  and  his  book-men ;  for  here  'tis  abused. 

Boyet.    If  my  observation,  (which,  very  seldom  lies,) 
By  the  heart's  still  rhetoric,  disclosed  with  eyes, 
Deceive  me  not  now,  Navarre  is  infected. 

Prin.    With  what? 

Boyet.    With  that  which  we  lovers  entitle,  afi'ected. 

Prin.    Your  reason  ? 

Boyet.    Why,  all  his  behaviors  did  make  their  retire, 
To  the  court  of  his  eye,  peeping  thorough  desire ; 
His  heart,  like  an  agate,  with  your  print  impressed, 
Proud  with  his  form,  in  his  eye  pride  expressed ; 
His  tongue,  all  impatient  to  speak  and  not  see, 
Did  stumble  with  haste  in  his  eyesight  to  be ; 
All  senses  to  that  sense  did  make  their  repair. 
To  feel  only  looking  on  fairest  of  fair. 
Methought,  all  his  senses  Avere  locked  in  his  eye, 
As  jewels  in  crystal  for  some  prince  to  buy ; 
Who,  tend'ring  their  own  worth,  from  where  they  were  glassed. 
Did  point  you  to  buy  them  along  as  you  passed. 
His  face's  own  margent  did  quote  such  amazes. 
That  all  eyes  saw  his  eyes  enchanted  with  gazes. 
I'll  give  you  Aquitain,  and  all  that  is  his. 
An  you  give  him  for  my  sake  but  one  loving  kiss. 

Prin.    Come,  to  our  pavilion.     Boyet  is  disposed — 

Boyet.    But  to  sjteak  that  in  words,  which  his  eye  hath 
disclosed. 


4G4  LOVE'S    LABOR'S    LOST.        [Act  111 

I  only  have  made  a  mouth  of  his  eye, 

By  adding  a  tongue  which  I  know  will  not  lie. 

Bos.   Thou  art  an  old  love-monger,  and  speak'st  skilfully. 

3Iar.  He  is  Cupid's  grandfather,  and  learns  news  of  him. 

Mos.  Then  was  Venus  like  her  mother ;  for  her  father  is 
but  grim. 

Boyet.    Do  you  hear,  my  mad  wenches  ? 

Mar.  No. 

Boyet.  What  then,  do  you  see  ? 

Ros.  Aj,  our  way  to  he  gone. 

Boyet.  You  are  too  hard  for  me. 

\_Uxeunt. 


ACT   III. 

SCENE  I.     Another  part  of  the  same. 
Enter  Armado  and  Moth. 

Arm.    Warble,    child ;    make    passionate   my    sense    of 
hearing. 

Moth.    Concolinel \_Singing. 

Arm.  Sweet  air !  —  Go,  tenderness  of  years,  take  this 
key,  give  enlargement  to  the  swain,  bring  him  festinately 
hither.     I  must  employ  him  in  a  letter  to  my  love. 

Moth.  Master,  will  you  win  your  love  with  a  French  brawl  ? 

Arm.    How  mean'st  thou  ?  brawlmg  in  French  ? 

Moth.  No,  my  complete  master ;  but  to  jig  off  a  tune  at 
the  tongue's  end,  canary  to  it  with  your  feet,  humor  it  with 
turning  up  your  eyelids ;  sigh  a  note,  and  sing  a  note ; 
sometime  through  the  throat,  as  if  you  swallowed  love  with 
singing  love ;  sometime  through  the  nose,  as  if  you  snuffed 
up  love  by  smelling  love  ;  with  your  hat  penthouse-like  o'er  - 
the  shop  of  your  eyes ;  with  your  arms  crossed  on  your  thin 
belly-doublet,  like  a  rabbit  on  a  spit ;  or  your  hands  in  your 
pocket,  like  a  man  after  the  old  painting ;  and  keep  not  too 
long  in  one  tune,  but  a  snip  and  away.  These  are  comple- 
ments, these  are  humors;  these  betray  nice  wenches  —  that 
would  be  betrayed  without  these ;  and  make  them  men  of 
note,  (do  you  note,  men  ?)  that  most  are  affected  to  these. 

Arm.    How  hast  thou  purchased  this  experience? 

Moth.    By  my  penny  of  observation. 

Arm    But  0, — but  0, — 

Moth.    — the  hobby-horse  is  forgot. 

Arm.    Callest  thou  my  love  hobby-horse  ?__  '"0^>L/  '^J<jjo 


Act  III]         LOVE'S    LABOR'S   LOST.  465 

Moth.  No,  master ;  the  hobby-horse  is  but  a  colt,  and 
your  love  perhaps  a  hackney.  But  have  you  forgot  your 
love? 

Arm.    Almost  I  had. 

Moth.    Negligent  student !  learn  her  by  heart. 

Arm.    By  heart,  and  in  heart,  boy. 

Moth.  And  out  of  heart,  master ;  all  those  three  T  will 
prove. 

Arm.    What  wilt  thou  prove  ? 

Moth.  A  man,  if  I  live ;  and  this,  by,  in,  and  without, 
upon  the  instant.  By  heart  you  love  her,  because  your 
heart  cannot  come  by  her ;  in  heart  you  love  her  because 
your  heart  is  in  love  with  her ;  and  out  of  heart  you  love 
her,  being  out  of  heart  that  you  cannot  enjoy  her. 

Arm.    I  am  all  these  three. 

Moth.  And  three  times  as  much  more,  and  yet  nothing 
at  all. 

Arm.  Fetch  hither  the  swain ;  he  must  carry  me  a  letter. 

Moth.  A  message  well  sympathized ;  a  horse  to  be  an 
ambassador  for  an  ass  ! 

Arm.    Ha,  ha !  what  sayest  thou  ? 

Moth.  Marry,  sir,  you  must  send  the  ass  upon  the  horse, 
for  he  is  very  slow-gaited.     But  I  go. 

Arm.    The  way  is  but  short;  away. 

Moth.    As  swift  as  lead,  sir, 

Arm.    Thy  ii;e;niing,  pretty  ingenious? 
Is  not  lead  a  metal  heavy,  dull,  and  slow . 

Moth.    Minime,  honest  master ;  or  rather,  master,  no. 

Arm.    I  say,  lead  is  slow. 

Moth.  You  are  too  swift,  sir,  to  say  so. 

Is  that  lead  slow  which  is  fired  from  a  gun? 

Arm.    Sweet  smoke  of  rhetoric ! 
He  reputes  me  a  cannon ;  and  the  bullet,  that's  he. — 
I  shoot  thee  at  the  swain. 

Moth.  Thump  then,  and  I  flee.     {^Exit. 

Arm.    A  most  acute  juvenal ;  voluble  and  free  of  grace ! 
By  thy  favor,  sweet  welkin,  I  must  sigh  in  thy  face.        ,     jMAa.  -    ^^ 
Most  rude  melancholy,  valor  gives  thee  place. 
My  herald  is  returned.  /l^c!sJ> 


Re-enter  Moth  and  Costard. 

Moth.    A  wonder,  master ;  here's  a  Costard  broken  m  a 

shin. 
Arm.    Some  enigma,  some  riddle.     Come, — thy  V envoy  ; 

—  begin. 
Cost.   No  egma,  no  riddle,  no  V envoy ;  no  ealve  in  the 
Vol.  I.  — 30 


/ 


400  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.        [Act  ni 

mail,  sir.     0,  sir,  plantain,  a  plain  plantain  ;  no  Venvoy,  no 
T envoy,  no  salve,  sir,  but  a  plantain  ! 

Arvi.  Bj  virtue,  thou  enforcest  laughter ;  thy  silly 
thought,  my  spleen ;  the  heaving  of  my  lungs  provokes  me 
to  ridiculous  smiling.  0,  pardon  me,  my  stars !  Doth  the 
inconsiderate  take  salve  for  Venvoy,  and  the  word,  Venvoy, 
for  a  salve  ? 

Moth,  Do  the  wise  think  them  other?  Is  not  Venvoy  a 
salve? 

Arm.    No,  page ;  it  is  an  epilogue  or  discourse,  to  make 
plain 
Some  obscure  precedence  that  hath  tofore  been  sain. 
I  vrill  example  it. 

The  fox,  the  ape,  and  the  humble-bee, 
Were  still  at  odds,  being  but  three. 
There's  the  moral ;  now  the  Venvoy. 

Moth.    I  will  add  the  Venvoy.     Say  the  moral  again. 
Arm.    The  fox,  the  ape,  and  the  humble-bee, 

Were  still  at  odds,  being  but  three. 
Moth.    Until  the  goose  came  out  of  door, 
And  stayed  the  odds  by  adding  four. 
Now  will  I  begin  your  moral,  and  do  you  follow  with  my 
Venvoy. 

The  fox,  the  ape,  and  the  humble  bee, 
Were  still  at  odds,  being  but  three. 
Arm.    Until  the  goose  came  out  of  door, 

Staying  the  odds  by  adding  four. 
3Ioth.    A  good  Venvoy,  ending  in  the  goose. 
Would  you  desire  more  ? 

Cost.    The  boy  hath  sold  him  a  bargain,  a  goose ;  that's 
flat.— 
Sir,  your  pennyworth  is  good,  an  your  goose  be  fat. — 
To  sell  a  bargain  well,  is  as  cunning  as  fast  and  loose. 
Let  me  see  a  fat  Venvoy  ;  ay,  that's  a  fat  goose. 

Arm.    Come  hither,  come  hither.     How  did  this   argu- 
ment begin  ? 
3foth.    By  saying  that  a  Costard  was  broken  in  a  shin. 
Then  called  you  for  the  Venvoy. 

Cost.    True,  and  I  for  a  plantain ;  thus  came  your  argu- 
ment in. 
Then  the  boy's  fat  Venvoy,  the  goose  that  you  bought ; 
And  he  ended  the  market. 

A7-m.  But  tell  me ;  how  was  there  a  Costard  broken  in 
a  shin  ? 

Moth.    I  will  tell  you  sensibly. 

Cost.  Thou  hast  no  feeling  of  it,  Moth ;  I  will  speak  that 
renvoy. 


Act  III.]        LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  4G7 

1,   Costard,  running  out,  that  was  safely  within, 
Fell  over  the  threshold,  and  broke  my  shin. 

A7-m.    We  will  talk  no  more  of  this  matter. 

Cost.    Till  there  be  more  matter  in  the  shin. 

Arin.    Sirrah  Costard,  I  will  enfranchise  thee. 

Cost.  0,  marry  me  to  one  Frances. — I  smell  some  T envoy ., 
some  goose  in  this. 

Arm.  By  my  sweet  soul,  I  mean,  setting  thee  at  liberty, 
enfreedoming  thy  person ;  thou  wert  immured,  restrained, 
captivated,  bound. 

Cost.  True,  true ;  and  now  you  will  be  my  purgation,  and 
let  me  loose. 

Arm.  I  give  thee  thy  liberty,  set  thee  from  durance ; 
and,  in  lieu  thereof,  impose  on  thee  nothing  but  this.  Bear 
this  significant  to  the  country  maid  Jaquenetta.  There  is 
remuneration;  \_Criving  him  money. 1^  for  the  best  ward  of 
mine  honor  is,  rewarding  my  dependants.     Moth,  follow. 

[Exit. 

Moth.    Like  the  sequel,  I.  —  Seignior  Costard,  adieu. 

Cost.    My  sweet  ounce  of  man's  flesh  !  My  incony  Jew  ! — 

[Exit  Moth. 
Now  will  I  look  to  his  remuneration.  Remuneration  !  0, 
that's  the  Latin  word  for  three  farthings  :  three  farthings — 
remuneration.  —  Wliat's  the  price  of  this  inkle  ?  A  fenny. 
— JVb,  1  'II  give  you  a  remuneration.  Why,  it  carries  it.  — 
Remuneration  !  —  Why,  it  is  a  fairer  name  than  French 
crown.     I  will  never  buy  and  sell  out  of  this  word. 

Enter  Biron. 

Biron.  0,  my  good  knave  Costard  !  exceedingly  well  met. 

Cost.  Pray  you,  sir,  how  much  carnation  riband  may  a 
man  buy  for  a  remuneration  ? 

Biron.    What  is  a  remuneration  ? 

Cost.    Marry,  sir,  half-penny  farthing. 

Biron.    0,  why,  then,  three  farthings  worth  of  silk. 

Cost.    I  thank  your  worship.     God  be  with  you ! 

Biron.    0,  stay,  slave ;  I  must  employ  thee. 
AlS  thou  wilt  win  my  favor,  good  my  knave, 
Do  one  thing  for  me  that  I  shall  entreat. 

Cost.    When  would  you  have  it  done,  sir  ? 

Biron.    0,  this  afternoon. 

Cost.    AVell,  I  will  do  it,  sir.     Fare  you  well. 

Biron.    0,  thou  knoAvcst  not  what  it  is. 

Cost.    I  shall  know,  sir,  when  I  have  done  it. 

Biron.    Why,  villain,  thou  must  know  first. 

(!o9t.    I  will  come  to  your  worship  to-morrow  m(  rning. 


468  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.        [Act  III 

Biron.  It  must  be  done  this  afternoon.  Hark,  slave,  it 
is  but  tbis. — 

The  princess  comes  to  hunt  here  in  the  park, 
And  in  her  train  there  is  a  gentle  lady  ; 
When  tongues  speak  sweetly,  then  they  name  her  name, 
And  Rosaline  they  call  her.     Ask  for  her ; 
And  to  her  white  hand  see  thou  do  commend 
This  sealed-up  counsel.     There's  thy  guerdon ;  go. 

[^Gives  him  money 

Cost.  Guerdon, —  0  sweet  guerdon  !  better  than  remune- 
ration ;  eleven-pence  farthing  better.  Most  sweet  guerdon ! 
— I  will  do  it,  sir,  in  pi'int. —  Guerdon  —  remuneration. 

[Exit. 

Biron.  0  !  — And  I,  forsooth,  in  love  !  I,  that  have  been 
love's  whip ; 

A  very  beadle  to  a  humorous  sigh ; 
A  critic ;  nay,  a  night-watch  constable ; 
A  domineering  pedant  o'er  the  boy, 
Than  whom  no  mortal  so  magnificent ! 
This  wimpled,  whining,  purblind,  wayward  boy; 
This  senior-junior,  giant-dwarf,  Dan  Cupid ; 
Regent  of  love  rhymes,  lord  of  folded  arms. 
The  anointed  sovereign  of  sighs  and  groans, 
Liege  of  all  loiterers  and  malcontents. 
Dread  prince  of  plackets,  king  of  codpieces. 
Sole  imperator,  aud  great  general 
Of  trotting  paritors  —  0  my  little  heart  — 
And  I  to  be  a  corporal  of  his  field. 
And  wear  his  colors  like  a  tumbler's  hoop ! 
What  ?     I !     I  love !     I  sue !     I  seek  a  wife !       _*  ^ 

A  woman,  that  is  like  a  German  clock,  (^y-^^AMx^.AtI^UnuA<y 
Still  a-repairing;  ever  out  of  frame;  •'  v  AU^av'-^'*'''*^') 
And  never  going  aright,  being  a  watch,  f  v 

But  being  watched  that  it  may  still  go  right ! 
Nay,  to  be  perjured,  which  is  worst  of  all ; 
And,  among  three,  to  love  the  worst  of  all ; 
A  whitely  wanton  with  a  velvet  brow. 
With  two  pitch  balls  stuck  in  her  face  for  eyes, 
Ay,  and,  by  Heaven,  one  that  will  do  the  deed, 
Though  Argus  were  her  eunuch  and  her  guard ;  — 
And  I  to  sigh  for  her !  to  watch  for  her ! 
To  pray  for  her !     Go  to ;  it  is  a  plague 
That  Cupid  will  impose  for  my  neglect 
Of  his  almighty  dreadful  little  might. 
Well,  I  will  love,  write,  sigh,  pray,  sue,  and  groan ; 
Some  men  must  lo^e  my  lady,  and  some  Joan.       [Exit 


ActIVI        LOVE'S   LABOE'S   LOST.  469 


ACT   IV. 

SCENE  I.     Another  part  of  the  same. 

Enter  the  Princess,  Rosaline,  Maria,  Katharine,  Boyei, 
Lords,  Attendans,  and  a  Forester. 

Prin.    Was  that  the  king,  that  spurred  his  horse  so  hard 
Against  the  steep  uprising  of  the  hill  ? 

Boyet.    I  know  not ;  but  I  think  it  was  not  he. 

Prin.    Whoe'er  he  was,  he  showed  a  mounting  mind. 
Well,  lords,  to-day  we  shall  have  our  despatch ; 
On  Saturday  we  will  return  to  France. — 
Then,  forester,  my  friend,  .where  is  the  bush. 
That  we  must  stand  and  play  the  murderer  in?  -  -f-Lt^^- 

For.    Here  by,  upon  the  edge  of  yonder  coppice ; 
A  stand  where  you  may  make  the  fairest  shoot. 

Prin.    I  thank  my  beauty,  I  am  fair  that  shoot, 
And  thereupon  thou  speakest,  the  fairest  shoot. 

For.    Pardon  me,  madam,  for  I  meant  not  so. 

Prin.    What,  what  ?  first  praise  me,  and  again  say,  no  ? 
0  short-lived  pride  !     Not  fair  ?  alack  for  woe  ! 

For.    Yes,  madam,  fair. 

Prin.  Nay,  never  paint  me  now ; 

Where  fair  is  not,  praise  cannot  mend  the  brow. 
Here,  good  my  glass,  take  this  for  telling  true;    c.        ^"C^  / 

\_G-iving  Mm  money. 
Fair  payment  for  foul  words  is  more  than  due. 

For.    Nothing  but  fair  is  that  which  you  inherit. 

Prin.    See,  see,  my  beauty  will  be  saved  by  merit. 
0  heresy  in  fair,  fit  for  these  days  ! 
A  giving  hand,  though  foul,  shall  have  fair  praise. — 
But  come,  the  bow. — Now  mercy  goes  to  kill. 
And  shooting  well  is  then  accounted  ill. 
Thus  will  I  save  my  credit  in  the  shoot ; 
Not  wounding,  pity  would  not  let  me  do't; 
If  wounding,  then  it  was  to  show  my  skill. 
That  more  for  praise,  than  purpose,  meant  to  kill. 
And,  out  of  question,  so  it  is  sometimes ; 
Glory  grows  guilty  of  detested  crimes. 
When,  for  fame's  sake,  for  praise,  an  outward  part. 
We  bend  to  that  the  working  of  the  heart ; 
As  I,  for  praise  alone,  now  seek  to  spill 
The  poor  deer's  blood,  that  my  heart  means  no  ill. 
21- 


47()  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.         [Act  T^ 

Boyrt.     Do  not  curst  wives  hold  that  self-so  ccreignty 
Only  foi"  praise'  sake,  when  they  strive  to  be 
Lords  o'er  their  lords  ? 

Prin.    Only  for  praise;  and  praise  we  may  afford 
To  any  lady  that  subdues  a  lord. 

Enter  Costard. 

Here  comes  a  member  of  the  commonwealth. 

Cost.  God  dig-you-den  all !  Pray  you,  which  is  the  head 
lady? 

Prin.  Thou  shalt  know  her,  fellow,  by  the  rest  that  have 
no  heads. 

Cost.    Which  is  the  greatest  lady,  the  highest  ? 

Prin.    The  thickest  and  the  tallest. 

CW.    The  thickest,  and  the  tallest !     It  is  so ;  truth  is 
truth. 
An  your  waist,  mistress,  were  as  slender  as  my  wit, 
One  of  these  maids'  girdles  for  your  waist  should  be  fit. 
Are  not  you  the  chief  woman  ?     You  are  the  thickest  here. 

Prin.    What's  your  will,  sir?  what's  your  will? 

Cost.    I  have  a  letter  from  monsieur  Biron,  to  one  lady 
Rosaline. 

Prin.    0,  thy  letter,  thy  letter ;  he's  a  good  friend  of  mine. 
Stand  aside,  good  bearer. — Boyet,  you  can  carve ; 
Break  up  this  capon. 

Boyet.  I  am  bound  to  serve. — 

This  letter  is  mistook ;  it  importeth  none  here. 
It  is  writ  to  Jaquenetta. 

Pri7i.  We  will  read  it,  I  swear. 

Break  the  neck  of  the  wax,  and  every  one  give  ear. 

Boyet.  [Reads.]  By  Heaven,  that  thoic  art  fair,  is  most 
infallible ;  true,  that  tlioii  art  beauteous ;  truth  itself,  that 
thou  art  lovely.  3Iore  fairer  than  fair,  beautiful  tha7i  beau- 
teous; truer  than  truth  itself,  have  commiseration  on  thy 
heroical  vassal !  The  magnanimous  and  most  illustrate 
king  Cophetua  set  eye  upon  the  pernicious  and  indubiate 
beggar  Zenelophon :  and  he  it  was  that  might  rightly  say, 
veni,  vidi,  vici ;  which  to  anatomize  in  the  vulgar,  [0  base 
and  obscure  vulgar !)  videlicet,  lie  came,  saw,  and  overcame  ; 
he  came,  one ;  saiv,  tivo ;  overcame,  three.  Who  came  f 
The  king.  Why  did  he  come  ?  To  see.  Wlty  did  he  see  ? 
To  overcome.  To  whom  came  he  ?  To  the  beggar.  What 
saw  he  ?  The  beggar.  Wlio  overcame  he  ?  The  beggar. 
The  conclusion  is  victory.  On  whose  side  ?  The  king's. 
The  captive  is  enriched.  On  whose  side  ?  The  beggar  s. 
The  catastrophe  is  a  nuptial.     On  whose  side  ?     The  king'sf 


A.CTIV.]       LOVE'S    LABOR'S    LOST.  4T1 

iVb,  on  both  in  one,  or  one  in  both.  lam  the  king  ;  for  so 
stands  the  comparison:  thou  the  beggar ;  for  so  witvesseth 
thy  lotvliness.  Shall  I  command  thy  love  ?  I  may.  Shall 
I  enforce  thy  love  ?  I  could.  Shall  I  entreat  thy  love  f  1 
will.  WJiat  shalt  thou  exchange  for  rags?  Robes ;  for 
tittles,  titles ;  for  thyself,  me.  Thus,  ex'pecting  thy  reply, 
I  profane  my  lips  on  thy  foot,  my  eyes  on  thy  picture,  and 
my  heart  on  thy  every  part. 

Thine,  in  the  dearest  design  of  industry^ 
Don  Adriano  de  Armado. 

Thus  dost  thou  hear  the  Nemean  lion  roar 

'Gainst  thee,  thou  Lamb,  that  standest  as  his  prey ; 
Submissive  fall  his  princely  feet  before, 

And  he  from  forage  will  incline  to  play. 
But  if  thou  strive,  poor  soul,  what  art  thou  then  ? 
Food  for  his  rage,  repasture  for  his  den. 

Prin.    What  plume  of  feathers  is  he,  that  indited  this 
letter  ? 
What  vane  ?  what  weathercock  ?  did  you  ever  hear  better  ? 

Boyet.    I  am  much  deceived,  but  I  remember  the  style. 

Prin.    Else  your  memory  is  bad,  going  o'er  it  ere-while. 

Boyet.    This  Armado  is  a  Spaniard,  that  keeps  here  in 
court ; 
A  phantasm,  a  Monarcho,  and  one  that  makes  sport 
To  the  prince,  and  his  book-mates. 

Prin.  Thou,  fellow,  a  word. 

Who  gave  thee  this  letter? 

Cost.  I  told  you ;  my  lord. 

Prin.    To  whom  should'st  thou  give  it  ? 

Cost.  From  my  lord  to  my  lady. 

Prin.    From  which  lord,  to  which  lady  ? 

Cost.    From  my  lord  Biron,  a  good  master  of  mine, 
To  a  lady  of  France,  that  he  called  Rosaline. 

Prin.    Thou  hast  mistaken  his  letter.     Come,  lords,  away 
Here,  sweet,  put  up  this ;  'twill  be  thine  another  day. 

\_Exit  Princess  and  Train, 

Boyet.    Who  is  the  suitor  ?  who  is  the  suitor  ? 

Ros.  Shall  I  teach  you  to  know ! 

Boyet.    Ay,  my  continent  of  beauty. 

Ros.  Why,  she  that  bears  the  bow. 

Finely  put  off! 

Boyet.    My  lady  goes  to  kill  horns  ;  but,  if  thou  marry, 
flang  me  by  the  neck,  if  horns  that  year  miscarry. 
Finely  put  on ! 

Ros.  Well  then,  I  am  the  shooter. 


472  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.        [Act  IV. 

Boyet.  And  who  is  your  deer? 

Ros.    If  we  choose  by  the  horns,  yourself;  come  near. 
Finely  put  on,  indeed! 

Mar.  You  still  wrangle  with  her,  Boyet,  and  she  strikes 

at  the  brow. 
Boyet.  But  she  herself  is  hit  lower.    Have  I  hit  her  now  ' 
Ixos.   Shall  I  come  upon  thee  with  an  old  saying,  that  was 
a  man  when  king  Pepin  of  France  was  a  little  boy,  as  touch- 
ing the  hit  it? 

Boyet.  So  I  may  answer  thee  with  one  as  old,  that  was  a 
woman  when  queen  Guinever  of  Britain  was  a  little  wench, 
as  touching  the  hit  it. 

llos.    Thou  canst  not  hit  it,  hit  it,  hit  it,        [Singing. 

Thou  canst  not  hit  it,  my  good  man. 
Boyet.    An  I  cannot,  cannot,  cannot, 
An  I  cannot,  another  can. 

\_Exeunt  Ros.  and  Kath. 
Cost.    By  my  troth,  most  pleasant !  how  both  did  fit  it ! 
Mar.    A  mark  marvellous  well  shot !   for  they  both  did 

hit  it. 
Boyet.    A  mark  !    0,  mark  but  that  mark.    A  mark,  says 
my  lady ! 
Let  the  mark  have  a  prick  in't,  to  mete  at,  if  it  may  be. 
3Iar.    Wide  o'  the  bow  hand  !     I'faith  your  hand  is  out. 
Cost.    Indeed,  a'  must  shoot  nearer,  or  he'll  ne'er  hit  the 

clout. 
Boyet.    An  if  my  hand  be  out,  then,  belike  your  hand 

is  in. 
Cost.    Then  will  she  get  the  upshot  by  cleaving  the  pin. 
Mar.  Come,  come,  you  talk  greasily;  your  lips  grow  foul. 
Cost.  She's  too  hard  for  you  at  pricks,  sir ;  challenge  her 

to  bowl. 
Boyet.    I  fear  too  much  rubbing.     Good  night,  my  good 
owl.  \_Exeunt  Boyet  and  Maria. 

Cost.    By  my  soul,  a  swain  !  a  most  simple  clown  ! 
Lord,  lord,  how  the  ladies  and  I  have  put  him  down ! 
0'  my  troth,  most  sweet  jests !  most  incony  vulgar  wit ! 
When  it  comes  so  smoothly  off,  so  obscenely,  as  it  were, 

so  fit. 
Armatho  o'  the  one  side,  —  0,  a  most  dainty  man  ! 
To  see  him  walk  before  a  lady,  and  to  bear  her  fan ! 
To  see  him  kiss  his  hand !  and  how  most  sweetly  a'  will 

swear !  — 
And  his  page  o'  t'  other  side,  that  handful  of  wit ! 
Ah,  Heavens,  it  is  a  most  pathetical  nit  ! 
Sola,  sola!  \_Shouting  ivithin.     Exit  Cost,  running. 


AcTlV.]        LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  473 

SCENE  II.     The  same. 
Enter  Holofernes.  Sir  Nathaniel,  and  Dull. 

Nath.  Very  reverent  sport,  truly ;  and  done  in  the  testi- 
mony of  a  good  conscience. 

Hoi.  The  deer  was,  as  you  know,  in  sanguis,  —  blood; 
ripe  as  a  pomewater,  who  now  hangeth  like  a  jewel  in  the 
ear  of  ccelo,  the  sky,  the  welkin,  the  heaven ;  and  anon  fall- 
eth,  like  a  crab,  on  the  face  of  terra,  —  the  soil,  the  land, 
the  earth, 

Nath.  Truly,  master  Holofernes,  the  epithets  are  sweetly 
varied,  like  a  scholar  at  the  least.  But,  sir,  I  assure  ye,  it 
was  a  buck  of  the  first  head.         sXtx_  VL.^>^V^ 

Hoi.    Sir  Nathaniel,  haud  credo.  ^"^^ i 

Dull.    'Twas  not  a  liaud  credo,  'twas  a  pricket. 

Hoi.  Most  barbarous  intimation !  yet  a  kind  of  insinua- 
tion, as  it  were,  in  via.,  in  way,  of  explication ;  facerCj  as 
it  were,  replication,  —  or,  rather,  ostentare,  to  show,  as  it 
were,  his  inclination,  —  after  his  undressed,  unpolished,  un- 
educated, unpruned,  untrained,  or  rather  unlettered,  or, 
ratherest,  unconfirmed  fashion,  —  to  insert  again  my  Jiaud 
credo  for  a  deer. 

Dull.  I  said,  the  deer  was  not  a  haud  credo ;  'twas  a 
pricket. 

Hoi.  Twice  sod  simplicity,  his  coctus  ! — 0  thou  monster, 
ignorance,  how  deformed  dost  thou  look ! 

Nath.    Sir,  he  hath  nevei   fed  of  the  dainties  that  are 
bred  in  a  book ;  he  hath  not  eat  paper,  as  it  were ;  he  hath 
not  drunk  ink ;  his  intellect  is  not  replenished ;  he  is  only 
an  animal,  only  sensible  in  the  duller  parts. 
And  such  barren  plants  are  set  before  us,  that  we  thankful 

should  be 
(Which  we  of  taste  and  feeling  are)  for  those  parts  that 

do  fructify  in  us  more  than  he. 
For  as  it  would  ill   become  me  to  be  vain,  indiscreet,  or 

a  fool, 
So,  were  there  a  pateh  set  on  learning,  to  see  him  in  a 

school : 
But,  omne  bene,  say  I ;  being  of  an  old  father's  mind, 
Many  can  brook  the  weather  that  love  not  the  wind. 

Dull.    You  two  are  book-men  ;  can  you  tell  by  your  wit. 
What  was  a  month  old  at  Cain's  birth,  that's  not  five  weeka 
old  as  yet  ? 

Uol.  Dietyniia,  good  man  Dull ;  Dictynna,  good  man  Dull. 

Dull.    What  is  Di(!tynna? 
2p* 


iT4  LOVE'S    LABOR'S    LOST.         [Act  IV 

I^aili.    A   title  to  Phoebe,  to  Luna,  to  the  moon. 

Mol,    The  moon  was  a  month  old,  when  Adam  was  no 
more; 
And  raught  not  to  five  weeks,  when  he  came  to  fivescore. 
The  allusion  holds   in  the  exchange. 

Dull.  'Tis  true  indeed ;  the  collusion  holds  in  the  exchange. 

Jlol.  God  comfort  thy  capacity !  I  say,  the  allusion 
holds  in  the  exchange. 

Dull.  And  I  say  the  pollution  holds  in  the  exchange ; 
for  the  moon  is  never  but  a  month  old :  and  I  say,  beside, 
that  'twas  a  pricket  that  the  princess  killed. 

IToL  Sir  Nathaniel,  will  you  hear  an  extemporal  epi- 
taph on  the  death  of  the  deer  ?  And,  to  humor  the  igno- 
rant, I  have  called  the  deer  the  princess  killed,  a  pricket. 

Nath.  Perge,  good  master  Holofernes,  perge  ;  so  it  shall 
please  you  to  abrogate  scurrility. 

Hoi.  I  will  something  afi'ect  the  letter ;  for  it  arguea 
facility. 

The  praiseful  princess  pierced  and  pricked  a  pretty  pleasing 
pricket ; 
Some  say,  a  sore;    hut  not  a  sore,  till   noio  made  sore 
with  shooting. 
The  dogs  did  yell  I    Put  I  to  sore,  then  sorel  jumps  from 
thicket ; 
Or  pricket,  sore,  or  else  sorel;  the  people  fall  a  hooting. 
If  sore  be  sore,  then  L  to  sore  makes  fifty  sores  ;   0  sore  L  ! 
Of  one  sore  I  a  hundred  make,  by  adding  but  one  more  L. 

Nath.    A  rare  talent ! 

Dull.  If  a  talent  be  a  claw,  look  how  he  claws  him  with 
a  talent. 

Hoi.  This  is  a  gift  that  I  have,  simple,  simple  ;  a  foolish, 
extravagant  spirit,  full  of  forms,  figures,  shapes,  objects, 
ideas,  apprehensions,  motions,  revolutions.  These  are  begot 
in  the  ventricle  of  memory,  nourished  in  the  womb  of  pia 
mater,  and  delivered  upon  the  mellowing  of  occasion ;  but 
the  gift  is  good  in  those  in  whom  it  is  acute,  and  I  am 
thankful  for  it. 

Nath.  Sir,  I  praise  the  Lord  for  you ;  and  so  may  my 
parishioners ;  for  their  sons  are  well  tutored  by  you,  and 
their  daughters  profit  very  greatly  under  you.  You  are  a 
good  member  of  the  commonAvealth. 

Hoi.  Mehercle,  if  their  sons  be  ingenious,  they  shaH  want 
no  instruction;  if  their  daughters  be  capable,  I  will  put  it 
to  them.     But,  vir  sapit,  qui  pauca  loquitur;  a  soul  femi 
nine  saluteth  us. 


Act  IV.]        LOVE'S    LABOR'S   LOST  475 

Enter  Jaquenetta  and  Costard. 

Jaq.    God  give  you  good  morrow,  master  person. 

Hoi.  Master  person, — quasi  pers-on.  And  if  one  should 
be  pierced,  which  is  the  one  ? 

Cost.  Marry,  master  schoolmaster,  he  that  is  likest  to  a 
hogshead. 

Hoi.  Of  piercing  a  hogshead !  a  good  lustre  of  conceit 
in  a  tuvf  of  earth ;  fire  enough  for  a  flint,  pearl  enough  for 
a  swine.      'Tis  pretty  ;  it  is  well. 

Jaq.  Good  master  parson,  be  so  good  as  read  me  this 
letter  ;  it  was  given  me  by  Costard,  and  sent  me  from  don 
Armatho.     I  beseech  you,  read  it. 

Hoi.  Fauste,  precor  (/elida  quando  ])ecus  omne  suh  umbra 
Muminat, — and  so  forth.     Ah,  good  old  Mantuan  ! 
I  may  speak  of  thee  as  the  traveller  doth  of  Venice: 

Vinegia,    Vinegia, 


CM  non  te  vede,  ei  non  te  pregia. 

Old  Mantuan  !  old  Mantuan  !  who  understandeth  thee  not, 
loves  thee  not.  —  Ut,  re,  sol,  la,  mi,  fa.  —  Under  pardon, 
sir,  what  are  the  contents  ?  or,  rather,  as  Horace  says  in 
his — What,  my  soul,  verses? 

Nath.    Ay,  sir,  and  very  learned. 

Hoi.  Let  me  hear  a  staff,  a  stanza,  a  verse.    Lege,  domine. 

Nath.    If  love    make    me    forsworn,  how  shall  I   swear 
to  love  ? 

Ah,  never  faith  could  hold,  if  not  to  beauty  vowed ! 
Though  to  myself  forsworn,  to  thee  I'll  faithful  prove ; 

Those   thoughts   to   me  were   oaks,  to   thee   like  osiera 
bowed. 
Study  his  bias  leaves,  and  makes  his  book  thine  eyes : 

Where    all  those  pleasures  live  that  art  would  compre- 
hend ; 
If  knowledge  be  the  mark,  to  know  thee  shall  suffice  ; 

Well  learned  is  that  tongue,  that  well  can  thee  commend. 

All  ignorant  that  soul,  that  sees  thee  without  wonder ; 

(Which  is  to  me  some  praise,  that  I  thy  parts  admire ;) 
Thy  eye   Jove's    lightning    bears,   thy   voice  his   dreadful 
thunder, 

Which,  not  to  anger  bent,  is  music  and  sweet  fire. 
Celestial,  as  thou  art,  0  pardon,  love,  this  wrong, 
That  sings  Heaven's  praise  with  such  an  earthly  tongue ! 

Hoi.  You  find  not  the  apostrophes,  and  so  miss  tho 
accent ;  let  me  supervise  the  canzonet.  Here  are  only  num- 
bers   ratified;    but,  for  the  elegancy,  facility,  and  golden 


476  LOVE'S    LABOR'S    LOST.        [Act  TV 

cadence  of  poesy,  caret.  Ovidius  Naso  was  the  inai\ ;  and 
why,  indeed,  Naso,  but  for  smelling  out  the  odoriferous 
flowers  of  fancy,  the  jerks  of  invention  ?  Imitari,  is  nothing ; 
so  doth  the  hound  his  master,  the  ape  his  keeper,  the  tired 
horse  his  rider.  But  damosella  virgin,  was  this  directed 
to  you  ? 

Jaq.  Ay,  sir,  from  one  Monsieur  Biron,  one  of  the  strange 
queen's  lords. 

Hoi.  I  will  overglance  the  superscript.  To  the  snow- 
white  hand  of  the  most  beauteous  lady  Rosaline.  I  will  look 
again  on  the  intellect  of  the  letter,  for  the  nomination  of  the 
party  writing  to  the  person  written  unto. 

Your  ladyship's  in  all  desired  employment,  Biron.  Sir 
Nathaniel,  this  Biron  is  one  of  the  votaries  with  the  king ; 
and  here  he  hath  framed  a  letter  to  a  sequent  of  the  stranger 
queen's,  which,  accidentally,  or  by  the  way  of  progression, 
hath  miscarried. — Trip  and  go,  my  sweet ;  deliver  this  paper 
into  the  royal  hand  of  the  king ;  it  may  concern  much.  Stay 
not  thy  compliment ;  I  forgive  thy  duty ;  adieu. 

(Tag.  Good  Costard,  go  with  me. — Sir,  God  save  your  life ! 

Cost.  Have  with  thee,  my  girl.      \_Exeu7it  Cost.  a7id  Jaq. 

Nath.  Sir,  you  have  done  this  in  the  fear  of  God,  very 
religiously ;  and,  as  a  certain  father  saith 

Hoi.  Sir,  tell  me  not  of  the  father ;  I  do  fear  colorable 
colors.  But  to  return  to  the  verses  —  did  they  please  you, 
sir  Nathaniel  ? 

Nath.    Marvellous  well  for  the  pen. 

Hoi.  I  do  dine  to-day  at  the  father's  of  a  certain  pupil 
of  mine  ;  where  if,  before  repast,  it  shall  please  you  to  gratify 
the  table  with  a  grace,  I  will,  on  my  privilege  I  have  with 
the  parents  of  the  foresaid  child  or  pupil,  undertake  your 
hen  venuto  ;  where  I  will  prove  those  verses  to  be  very  un- 
learned, neither  savoring  of  poetry,  wit,  nor  invention.  I 
beseech  your  society. 

Nath.  And  thank  you  too ;  for  society  (saith  the  text)  is 
the  happiness  of  life. 

Hoi.  And,  certes,  the  text  most  infallibly  concludes  it. — 
Sir,  \_To  Dull,]  I  do  invite  you  too ;  you  shall  not  say  me, 
nay ;  pauca  verba.  Away  ;  the  gentles  are  at  their  game, 
and  we  will  to  our  reo'eation.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  III.     Another  part  of  the  same. 
Enter  Biron,  ivith  a  Paper. 

Biron.  The  king  he  is  hunting  the  deer  ;  I  am  coursing 
myself;  they  have  pitched  a  toil;  I  am  toiling  in  a  pitch; 


Act  17.]        LOVE'S  LABOR'S   LOST.  477 

pitch  that  defiles  ;  defile !  a  foul  word.  Well,  set  thee  down, 
sorrow  !  for  so,  they  say,  the  fool  said,  and  so  say  I,  and  I 
the  fool.  Well  proved,  wit !  By  the  lord,  this  love  is  as 
mad  as  Ajax.  It  kills  sheep ;  it  kills  me,  I  a  sheep.  Well 
proved  again  on  my  side  !  I  will  not  love  ;  if  I  do,  hang  me ; 
i'faith,  I  will  not.  0,  but  her  eye,  —  by  this  light,  but  foi 
her  eye,  I  would  not  love  her ;  yes,  for  her  two  eyes.  Well, 
I  do  nothing  in  the  world  but  lie,  and  lie  in  my  throat.  By 
Heaven,  I  do  love ;  and  it  hath  taught  me  to  rhyme,  and  to 
be  melancholy ;  and  here  is  part  of  my  rhyme,  and  here  my 
melancholy.  Well,  she  hath  one  o'  my  sonnets  already ;  the 
clown  bore  it,  the  fool  sent  it,  and  the  lady  hath  it ;  sweet 
clown,  sweeter  fool,  sweetest  lady !  By  the  world,  I  would 
not  care  a  pin  if  the  other  three  were  in.  Here  comes  one 
with  a  paper ;  God  give  him  grace  to  groan  ! 

[_G-ets  up  into  a  tree 

Eriter  the  King,  with  a  Paper. 

King.   Ah  me ! 

Biron.  \^Aside.'\  Shot,  by  Heaven!  —  Proceed,  sweet 
Cupid ;  thou  hast  thumped  him  with  thy  bird-bolt  under  the 
left  pap.  —  I'faith,  secrets. — 

King.    [Reads.]   So  siveet  a  kiss  the  golden  sun  gives  not 

To  those  fresh  morning  drops  upon  the  rose, 
As  thy  eye-heams,  when  their  fresh  rays  have  smote 

The  night  of  deiv  that  on  my  cheeks  down  flows; 
Nor  shines  the  silver  moon  one  half  so  bright 

Through  the  transparent  bosom  of  the  deep, 
As  doth  thy  face  through  tears  of  mine  give  light ; 

Thou  shin  St  in  every  tear  that  I  do  weep ; 
No  drop  but  as  a  coach  doth  carry  thee; 

So  ridest  thou  triumphing  in  my  woe; 
Do  but  behold  the  tears  that  sivell  in  me, 

And  they  thy  glory  through  thy  grief  will  shoiv. 
But  do  not  love  thyself ;  then  thou  wilt  keep 
My  tears  for  glasses,  and  still  make  me  wee-p. 
0  queen  of  queens,  how  far  dost  thou  excel ! 
No  thought  can  think,  no  tongue  of  mortal  tell.—' 

How  shall  she  know  my  griefs  ?  I'll  drop  the  paper ; 
Sweet  leaves,  shade  folly.     Who  is  ho  comes  here  ? 

[Steps  aside 

Enter  Longaville,  with  a  Paper. 

What,  Longaville  '  and  reading !     Listen,  ear. 

Biron.   New,  in  thy  likeness,  one  more  fcol,  appear! 

[Aside. 


478  LOVE'S   LABOR   S   LOST.        [Act  IV, 

Long.    Ah  mc  !  I  ain  forsAvovn. 

Biron.   Why,  he  comes  in  hke  a  pcvjiiro,  wearing  papers 

\_A  side. 
King.    In  love,  I  hope ;  sweet  fellowship  in  shame ! 

[^Aside. 
Biron.    One  drunkard  loves  another  of  the  name. 

[Aside. 
Long.    Am  I  the  first  that  have  been  perjured  so  ? 
Biron.    [Aside.~\    I  could  put  thee  in  comfort ;    not  by 
two,  that  I  know. 
Thou  mak'st  the  triumviry,  the  corner-cap  of  society, 
The  shape  of  love's  Tyburn  that  hangs  up  simplicity. 

Long.    I  fear  these  stubborn  lines  lack  power  to  move ; 
0  sweet  Maria,  empress  of  my  love  ! 
These  numbers  will  I  tear,  and  write  in  prose. 

Biron.  [Aside.^  0,  rhymes  are  guards  on  wanton  Cupid's 
hose ; 
Disfigure  not  his  slop. 

Long.  This  same  shall  go. — 

[He  reads  the  sonnet. 

Bid  not  tJie  heavenly  rhetoric  of  thine  eye 

{'G-ainst  whom  the  world  cannot  hold  argument) 
Persuade  my  heart  to  this  false  perjury  ? 

Vows  for  thee  broke,  deserve  not  punishment. 
A  woman  I  forswore  ;  but  I  will  prove, 

Thou  being  a  goddess,  I  forsivore  not  thee. 
My  voio  teas  earthly,  thou  a  heavenly  love; 

Thy  grace  being  gained,  cures  all  disgrace  in  me. 
Vows  are  but  breath,  and  breath  a  vapor  is: 

Then,  thou,  fair  sun,  which  on  my  earth  dost  shine^ 
Exhal  'st  this  vapor  vow ;  in  thee  it  is. 

Lf  broken  tlien,  it  is  no  fault  of  mine ; 
Lf  by  me  broke,  tvhat  fool  is  not  so  wise, 
To  lose  an  oath  to  ivin  a  paradise  ^ 

Biron.  [Aside-I  This  is  the  liver  vein,  which  makes  flesh 
a  deity ; 
A  green  goose,  a  goddess ;  pure,  pure  idolatry. 
God  amend  us,  God  amend !  we  are  much  out  o'  the  way. 

3nter  Dumain,  with  a  Paper. 

Long.    By  whom  shall  I  send  this  ?  —  Company  !  stay. 

[Stepping  aside. 

Biron.    [Aside.']     All  hid,  all  hid,  an  old  infant  play. 
Like  a  demi-god  here  sit  I  in  the  sky. 
And  wTetched  fools'  secrets  heedfully  o'er-eye. 


Act  IV.]        LOVE'S    LABOR'S    LOST.  479 

More  sacks  t3  the  mill !    0  Heavens,  I  have  my  wish ! 
Dumain  transformed ;  four  woodcocks  in  a  dish  ! 
Dum.    0  most  divine  Kate ! 

Biron.  0  most  profane  coxcomb ! 

[^Aside. 
Dum.    By  Heaven,  the  wonder  of  a  mortal  ey<; ! 
Biron.    By  earth,  she  is  but  corporal ;  there  you  lie. 

\_Aside. 
Dum.    Her  amber  hairs  for  foul  have  amber  coted. 
Biron.    An  amber-colored  raven  was  well  noted.    {Aside 
Dum.    As  upright  as  the  cedar. 
Biron.  Stoop,  I  say  ; 

Her  shoulder  is  with  child.  \_Aside. 

Dum.  As  fair  as  day. 

Biron.    Ay,  as  some  days ;  but  then  no  sun  must  shine. 

[^Aside. 
Dum.    0  that  I  had  my  wish  ! 

Long.  And  I  had  mine !         {Aside. 

King.    And  I  mine  too,  good  Lord !  {Aside. 

Biron.    Amen,  so  I  had  mine,  is  not  that  a  good  word  ? 

{Aside. 
Dicm.    I  would  forget  her ;  but  a  fever  she 
Reigns  in  my  blood,  and  will  remembered  be. 

Biron.    A  fever  in  your  blood  !  why,  then  incision 
Would  let  her  out  in  saucers ;  sweet  misprision  !        {Aside. 
Dum.    Once  more  I'll  read  the  ode  that  I  have  writ. 
Biron.    Once  more  I'll  mark  how  love  can  vary  wit. 

{A  nde. 
Dum.         On  a  da^,  [alack  the  day  f) 

Love.,  whose  month  is  ever  May., 
Spied  a  blossom,  passing  fair, 
Playing  in  the  ivanton  air. 
Through  the  velvet  leaves  the  wind-, 
All  unseen,  'gan  passage  find; 
That  the  lover,  sick  to  death. 
Wished  himself  the  heaven  s  breath. 
Air,  quoth  he,  thy  cheeks  may  blow; 
Air,  would  I  might  triumph  so  ! 
But,  alack!  my  hand  is  sworn 
Neer  to  pluck  thee  from  thy  tlwrn. 
Vow,  alack !  for  youth  unmeet ; 
Youth  so  apt  to  pluck  a  stveet. 
Do  not  call  it  sin  in  me. 
That  I  am  forsworn  for  thee  ; — 
Thee — for  whom  Jove  would  swear^ 
Juno  but  an  Ethiop  were; 


480  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.        [Act  IV 

And  deny  himself  for  Jove, 
Turning  mortal  for  thy  love. — 

This  "will  I  send ;  and  something  else  more  plain, 
That  shall  express  my  true  love's  fasting  pain. 
0,  -would  the  king,  Biron,  and  Longaville, 
Were  lovers  too  !     Ill,  to  example  ill, 
Would  fi'om  my  forehead  wipe  a  perjured  note ; 
For  none  offend,  where  all  alike  do  dote. 

Long.  Dumain,  [advancing.']  thy  love  is  far  from  charity, 
That  in  love's  grief  desir'st  society. 
You  may  look  pale,  but  I  should  blush,  I  know, 
To  be  o'erheard,  and  taken  napping  so. 

King.    Come,  sir,  [advancing .]  you  blush ;  as  his  your 
case  is  such ; 
You  chide  at  him,  offending  twice  as  much. 
You  do  not  love  Maria ;  Longaville 
Did  never  sonnet  for  her  sake  compile ; 
Nor  never  lay  his  wreathed  arms  athwart 
His  loving  bosom,  to  keep  down  his  heart; 
I  have  been  closely  shrouded  in  this  bush, 
\nd  marked  you  both,  and  for  you  both  did  blush. 
I  heard  your  guilty  rhymes,  observed  your  fashion ; 
Saw  sighs  reek  from  you,  noted  well  your  passion. 
Ah  me !  says  one ;  0  Jove  !  the  other  cries ; 
One,  her  hairs  were  gold,  crystal  the  other's  eyes. 
You  would  for  paradise  break  faith  and  troth  ;     [  To  LoNa. 
And  Jove,  for  your  love,  would  infringe  an  oath. 

[To  DuMAm. 
What  will  Biron  say,  when  that  he  shall  hear 
Faith  infringed,  which  such  zeal  did  swear? 
How  will  he  scorn !     How  will  he  spend  his  wit ! 
How  will  he  triumph,  leap,  and  laugh  at  it ! 
For  all  the  wealth  that  ever  I  did  see, 
I  would  not  have  him  know  so  much  by  me. 

Biron.    Now  step  I  forth  to  whip  hypocrisy. — 
x'Vh,  good  my  liege,  I  pray  thee  pardon  me : 

[Descends  from  the  tree. 
Good  heart,  what  grace  hast  thou,  thus  to  reprove 
These  worms  for  loving,  that  art  most  in  love  ? 
Your  eyes  do  make  no  coaches ;  in  your  tears. 
There  is  no  certain  princess  that  appears. 
You'll  not  be  perjured ;  'tis  a  hateful  thing : 
Tush,  none  but  minstrels  like  of  sonneting. 
But  are  you  not  ashamed?     Nay,  are  you  not, 
All  three  of  you,  to  be  thus  much  o'ershot? 


ACT  IV.]        LOVE'S    LABOR'S   LOST.  481 

You  found  his  mote;  the  king  your  mote  did  see; 
But  I  a  beam  do  find  in  each  of  three. 

0,  what  a  scene  of  foolerv  I  have  seen, 

Of  sighs,  of  groans,  of  sorrow,  and  of  teen ! 

0  me,  with  what  strict  patience  have  I  sat, 
To  see  a  king  transformed  to   a  gnat ! 

To  see  great  Hercules  whipping  a  gig. 

And  profound  Solomon  to  tune  a  jig. 

And  Nestor  play  at  push-pin  with  the  boys, 

And  critic  Timon  laugh  at  idle  toys ! 

Where  lies  thy  grief,  0  tell  me,  good  Dumain; 

And  gentle  Longaville,  where  lies  thy  pain? 

And  where  my  liege's  ?     All  about  the  breast. — 

A  caudle,  ho  ! 

King.  Too  bitter  is  thy  jest. 

Are  we  betrayed  thus  to  thy  over-view? 

Biron.    Not  you  by  me,  but  I  betrayed  to  you. 

1,  that  am  honest ;  I,  that  hold  it  sin 
To  break  the  vow  I  am  engaged  in : 

1  am  betrayed,  by  keeping  company 

With  moon-like  men,  of  strange  inconstancy. 
When  shall  you  see  me  write  a  thing  in  rhyme,  . 
Or  groan  for  Joan,  or  spend  a  minute's  time 
In  pruning  me  ?     When  shall  you  hear  that  I 
Will  praise  a  hand,  a  foot,  a  face,  an  eye, 
A  gait,  a  state,  a  brow,  a  breast,  a  waist, 
A  leg,  a  limb  ?  — 

King.    Soft ;  whither  away  so  fast  ? 
A  true  man,  or  a  thief,  that  gallops  so  ? 

Biron.    I  post  from  love ;  good  lover,  let  me  go. 

Enter  Jaquenetta  and  Costard. 

Jaq.    God  bless  the  king ! 

King.  What  present  hast  thou  there  ? 

Cost.    Some  certain  treason. 

King.  What  makes  treason  here  ? 

Oo%t.    Nay,  it  makes  nothing,  sir. 

King.  If  it  mar  nothing  neither. 

The  treason,  and  you,  go  in  peace  away  together. 

Jaq.    I  beseech  your  grace,  let  this  letter  be  read; 
Our  parson  misdoubts  it ;  'twas  treason,  he  said. 

King.    Biron,  read  it  over.         [G-iving  him  the  letter. 
Where  hadst  thou  it? 

Jaq.    Of  Costard. 

King.    Where  hadst  thou  it  ? 

Cost.    Of  dun  Adramadio,  dun  Adramadio. 

Vol.  I.  —  31  2  q 


482  LOVE'S    LABOR'S    LOST.       [Act  IV 

King.    How  now  !  what  is  in  you  ?  why  dost  thou  tear  it  ? 
Biron.    A  toy,  my  liege,  a  toy  ;  your  grace  needs  not 

fear  it. 
Long.    It  did  move  him  to  passion,  and  therefore  let's 

hear  it. 
Dum.    It  is  Biron's  writing,  and  here  is  his  name. 

[^Picks  up  the  pieces. 
Biron.    Ah,  you  whoreson  loggerhead,     [To  Costard.] 
You  were  born  to  do  me  shame. 
Guilty,  my  lord,  guilty;  I  confess,  I  confess. 
King.    What? 

Biron.    That  you  three  fools  lacked  me  fool  to  make  up 
the  mess. 
He,  he,  and  you,  my  liege,  and  I, 
Are  pickpurses  in  love,  and  we  deserve  to  die. 
0,  dismiss  this  audience,  and  I  shall  tell  you  more. 
Bum.    Now  the  number  is  even. 

Biron.  True,  true;  we  are  four. — 

Will  these  turtles  be  gone  ? 

King.  Hence,  sirs ;  away. 

Cost.    Walk  aside  the  true  folk,  and  let  the  traitors  stay. 

l^Uxeunt  Cost,  and  Jaq. 
Biron.    Sweet  lords,  sweet  lovers,   0  let  us  embrace ! 
As  true  we  are  as  flesh  and  blood  can  be. 
The  sea  will  ebb  and  flow,  heaven  show  his  face; 

Young  blood  will  not  obey  an  old  decree. 
We  cannot  cross  the  cause  why  we  were  born; 
Therefore,  of  all  hands,  must  we  be  forsworn. 

King.    What,  did  these   rent  lines    show  some  love  of 

thine  ? 
Biron.    Did  they,  quoth  you  ?     Who  sees  the  heavenly 
Rosaline, 
That,  like  a  rude  and  savage  man  of  Inde, 

At  the  first  opening  of  the  gorgeous  east. 
Bows  not  his  vassal  head;  and,  strucken  blind. 

Kisses  the  base  ground  with  obedient  breast? 
What  peremptory  eagle-sighted  eye 

Dares  look  upon  the  heaven  of  her  brow. 
That  is  not  blinded  by  her  majesty? 

King.    What  zeal,  what  fury  hath  inspired  thee  now? 
My  love,  her  mistress,  is  a  gracious  moon ; 

She,  an  attending  star,  scarce  seen  a  light. 
Biron.    My  eyes  are  then  no  eyes,  nor  I  Biron. 
0,  but  for  my  love,  day  would  turn  to  night! 
Of  all  complexions  the  culled  sovereignty 

Do  meet,  as  at  a  fair,  in  her  fair  cheek ; 


Act  IV.]        LOVE'S   LABOR'S    LOST.  483 

Where  several  worthies  make  one  dignity; 

Where  nothing  wants ;  that  want  itself  doth  seek. 
Lend  me  the  flourish  of  all  gentle  tongues, — 

Fie,  painted  rhetoric  !     0,  she  needs  it  not. 
To  things  of  sale  a  seller's  praise  belongs ; 

She  passes  praise ;  then  praise  too  short  doth  blot. 
A  withered  hermit,  five-score  winters  worn. 

Might  shake  off  fifty,  looking  in  her  eye. 
Beauty  doth  varnish  age,  as  if  new-born, 

And  gives  the  crutch  the  cradle's  infancy. 
0,  'tis  the  sun,  that  maketh  all  things  shine ! 
King.    By  Heaven,  thy  love  is  black  as  ebony. 
Biron.    Is  ebony  like  her  ?     0  wood  divine ! 
A  wife  of  such  wood  were  felicity. 
0,  who  can  give  an  oath  ?     Where  is  a  book  ? 

That  I  may  swear,  beauty  doth  beauty  lack, 
If  that  she  learn  not  of  her  eye  to  look; 

No  face  is  fair,  that  is  not  full  so  black. 
King.    0  paradox !     Black  is  the  badge  of  hell, 
The  hue  of  dungeons,  and  the  scowl  of  night ; 
And  beauty's  crest  becomes  the  heavens  well. 

Biron.    Devils  soonest  tempt,  resembling  spirits  of  light. 
0,  if  in  black  my  lady's  brows  be  decked. 

It  mourns,  that  painting,  and  usurping  hair, 
Should  ravish  doters  with  a  false  aspect ; 

And  therefore  is  she  born  to  make  black  fair. 
Her  favor  turns  the  fashion  of  the  days ; 

For  native  blood  is  counted  painting  now ; 
And  therefore  red,  that  would  avoid  dispraise, 
Paints  itself  black,  to  imitate  her  brow. 
Bum.    To  look  like  her,  are  chimney-sweepers  black. 
Long.    And  since  her  time  are  colliers  counted  bright. 
King.    And  Ethiops  of  their  sweet  complexion  crack. 
Bum.    Dark  needs  no  candles  now,  for  dark  is  light. 
Biron.    Your  mistresses  dare  never  come  in  rain. 
For  fear  their  colors  should  be  washed  away. 

King.    'Twere  good  yours  did;  for,  sir,  to  tell  you  plain, 

I'll  find  a  fairer  face  not  washed  to-day. 
Biron.    I'll  prove  her  fair,  or  talk  till  doomsday  here. 
King.    No  devil  will  fright  thee  then  so  much  as  she. 
Dum.    I  never  knew  man  hold  vile  stuff  so  dear. 
Long,    Look,  here's  thy  love ;  my  foot  and  her  face  see. 

\_Slioiving  his  shoe. 
Biron.    0,  if  the  streets  were  paved  with  thine  eyes, 
Her  feet  were  much  too  dainty  for  such  tread  I 


484  LOVE'S    LABOR'S   LOST.        [Act  IV. 

Vum.    0  vile!     Then  as  she  goes,  what  upward  lies 
The  street  should  see  as  she  Avalked  overhead. 

King.    But  what  of  this  ?     Are  we  not  all  in  love  ? 

Biron.    0,  nothing  so  sure;  and  thereby  all  forsworn- 

King.  Then  leave  this  chat ;  and,  good  Biron,  now  prove 
Our  loving  lawful,  and  our  faith  not  torn. 

Dum.    Ay,  marry,  there,  —  some  flattery  for  this  evil. 

Long.    0,  some  authority  how  to  proceed ; 
Some  tricks,  some  quillets,  how  to  cheat  the  devil. 

Dum.    Some  salve  for  perjury. 

Biron.  0,  'tis  more  than  need  !  — 

Have  at  you,  then,  affection's  men  at  arms ! 
Consider  what  you  did  first  swear  unto;  — 
To  fast,  —  to  study,  —  and  to  see  no  woman;  — 
Flat  treason  'gainst  the  kingly  state  of  youth. 
Say,  can  you  fast?     Your  stomachs  are  too  young; 
And  abstinence  engenders  maladies. 
And  where  that  you  have  vowed  to  study,  lords, 
In  that  of  each  of  you  hath  forsworn  his  book, 
Can  you  still  dream,  and  pore,  and  thereon  look? 
For  when  would  you,  my  lord,  or  you,  or  you, 
Have  found  the  ground  of  study's  excellence, 
Without  the  beauty  of  a  woman's  face? 
From  women's  eyes  this  doctrine  I  derive : 
They  are  the  ground,  the  books,  the  academes, 
From  whence  doth  spring  the  true  Promethean  fire. 
Why,  universal  plodding  prisons  up 
The  nimble  spirits  in  the  arteries ; 
As  motion,  and  long-during  action,  tires 
The  sinewy  vigor  of  the  traveller. 
Now,  for  not  looking  on  a  woman's  face, 
You  have  in  that  forsworn  the  use  of  eyes ; 
And  study  too,  the  causer  of  your  vow ; 
For  where  is  any  author  in  the  world, 
Teaches  such  beauty  as  a  woman's  eye  ? 
Learning  is  but  an  adjunct  to  ourself; 
And  where  we  are,  our  learning  likewise  is. 
Then,  when  ourselves  we  see  in  ladies'  eyes. 
With  ourselves. 

Do  we  no*;  likewise  see  our  learning  there  ? 
0,  we  have  made  a  vow  to  study,  lords ; 
And  in  that  vow  we  have  forsworn  our  books; 
For  when  would  you,  my  liege,  or  you,  or  you, 
In  leaden  contemplation,  have  found  out 
Such  fiery  numbers,  as  the  prompting  eyes 
Of  beauteous  tutors  have  enriched  you  with? 


ActIV.J        LOVE'S    LABOR'S   LOST.  485 

Other  slow  arts  entirely  keep  the  brain", 

And  therefore  finding  barren  practisers, 

Scarce  show  a  harvest  of  their  heavy  toil; 

But  love,  first  learned  in  a  lady's  eyes. 

Lives  not  alone  immured  in  the  brain  ; 

But,  with  the  motion  of  all  elements. 

Courses  as  swift  as  thought  in  every  power ; 

And  gives  to  every  power  a  double  power. 

Above  their  functions  and  their  offices. 

It  adds  a  precious  seeing  to  the  eye ; 

A  lover's  eyes  will  gaze  an  eagle  blind ; 

A  lover's  ear  will  hear  the  lowest  sound, 

When  the  suspicious  head  of  theft  is  stopped; 

Love's  feeling  is  more  soft,  and  sensible, 

Than  are  the  tender  horns  of  cockled  snails; 

Love's  tongue  proves  dainty  Bacchus  gross  in  taste. 

For  valor,  is  not  love  a  Hercules, 

Still  climbing  trees  in  the  Hesperides  ? 

Subtle  as  sphinx ;  as  sweet,  and  musical, 

As  bright  Apollo's  lute,  strung  with  his  hair ; 

And,  when  love  speaks,  the  voice  of  all  the  gods 

Makes  heaven  drowsy  with  the  harmony. 

Never  durst  poet  touch  a  pen  to  write. 

Until  his  ink  were  tempered  with  love's  sighs; 

0,  then  his  lines  would  ravish  savage  ears. 

And  plant  in  tyrants  mild  humility. 

From  women's  eyes  this  doctrine  I  derive : 

They  sparkle  still  the  right  Promethean  fire; 

They  are  the  books,  the  arts,  the  academes. 

That  show,  contain,  and  nourish  all  the  world. 

Else,  none  at  all  in  aught  proves  excellent ; 

Then  fools  you  were  these  women  to  forswear; 

Or,  keeping  what  is  sworn,  you  will  prove  fools. 

For  wisdom's  sake,  a  word  that  all  men  love ; 

Or  for  love's  sake,  a  word  that  loves  all  men ; 

Or  for  men's  sake,  the  authors  of  these  women; 

Or  women's  sake,  by  whom  we  men  are  men; 

Let  us  once  lose  our  oaths  to  find  ourselves, 

Or  else  we  lose  ourselves  to  keep  our  oaths. 

It  is  religion  to  be  thus  forsworn ; 

For  charity  itself  fulfils  the  law ; 

And  who  can  sever  love  from  charity  ? 

King.    Saint  Cupid,  then  !    And,  soldiers,  to  the  field ! 

Biron.    Advance  your  standards,  and  upon  them,  lords : 
Pell-mell,  down  with  them.     But  be  first  advised, 
In  confiict  that  you  get  the  sun  of  thtm 
2q* 


486  LOVE'S   LABOR'S    LOST.         [Act  V 

Loncj     Now  to  plain-dealing ;  lay  these  glozes  by : 
Shall  we  resolve  to  avoo  these  girls  of  France  ? 

King.    And  win  them  too :  therefore  let  us  devise 
Some  entertainment  for  them  in  their  tents. 

Biron.    First,  from  the  park  let  us  conduct  them  thither; 
Then,  homcAvai-d,  every  man  attach  the  hand 
Of  his  fair  mistress.     In  the  afternoon 
We  will  with  some  strange  pastime  solace  them, 
Such  as  the  shortness  of  the  time  can  shape ; 
For  revels,  dances,  masks,  and  merry  hours, 
Fore-run  fair  Love,  strewing  her  way  with  flowers. 

King.    Away,  away !     No  time  shall  be  omitted, 
That  will  be  time,  and  may  by  us  be  fitted. 

Biron.    Allons  !  Allons  ! — Sowed  cockle  reaped  no  corn ; 
And  justice  always  whirls  in  equal  measure  ! 
Light  wenches  may  prove  plagues  to  men  forsworn; 

If  so    om-  copper  buys  no  better  treasure.        [Exeunt, 


ACT   V. 

SCENE  I.     Another  part  of  the  same. 
Knter  Holofernes,  Sir  Nathaniel,  and  Dull. 

ITol.    Satis  quod  sufficit. 

Nath.  I  praise  God  for  you,  sir.  Your  reasons  at  dinner 
have  been  sharp  and  sententious ;  pleasant  without  scurrility, 
witty  without  affection,  audacious  without  impudency,  learned 
without  opinion,  and  strange  without  heresy.  I  did  converse 
this  quondam  day  with  a  companion  of  the  king's,  who  is 
intituled,  nominated,  or  called,  Don  Adriano  de  Armado. 

_  Hoi.  JSfovi  hominem  tanquam  te.  His  humor  is  lofty, 
his  discourse  peremptory,  his  tongue  filed,  his  eye  ambitious, 
bis  gait  majestical,  and  his  general  behaviour  vain,  ridicu- 
lous, and  thrasonical.  He  is  too  picked,  too  spruce,  too 
affected,  too  odd,  as  it  were,  too  peregrinate,  as  I  may  call  it. 

Nath.    A  most  singular  and  choice  epithet. 

[Takes  out  his  table-book. 

Hoi.  He  draweth  out  the  thread  of  his  verbosity  finer 
than  the  staple  of  his  argument.  I  abhor  such  fanatical 
phantasms,  such  insociable  and  point-devise  companions; 
Buch  rackers  of  orthography,  as  to  speak,  doubt,  fine,  when 
he  should  say,  doubt;  det,  when  he  should  pronoimce,  debt: 
d,  e,  b,  t ;  not,  d,  e,  t.     He  clepeth  a  calf,  cauf :  haf,  hauf : 


AoT  \^]  LOVE'S   LABOR'S    LOST.  4S7 

neighbor,  vocatur,  nebor,  neigh,  abbreviated,  ne  This  is 
abhominable,  (which  he  would  call  abominable ;)  it  insinu- 
ateth  me  of  insanie.  JS^e  intelUgis,  domine  ?  To  make 
frantic  lunatic. 

Nath.    Laus  deo,  bone  intelligo. 

Hoi.     Bone? hone,    for    bene;    Prisciaii    a    little 

scratched ;  'twill  serve. 

Enter  Armado,  Moth,  and  Costard.     >  ^ 

Nath.    Videsne  quis  venit?    ^0  ^'^^^  ^'^  ^""^""^    ' 

Hoi.     Video  et  gaudeo.     J  /^^.ji.  S  0  A-M'IK/^-^ 

Arm.    Chirra!  ^      [To  MoTH 

Hoi.    Quare  Chirra,  not  sirrah  ? 

vlrm.    Men  of  peace,  well  encountered. 

Hoi.    Most  military  sir,  salutation. 

Moth.  They  have  been  at  a  great  feast  of  languages,  and 
stolen  the  scraps.  \^To  Costard,  aside 

Cost.  0,  they  have  lived  long  in  the  alms-basket  of  words : 
I  marvel  thy  master  hath  not  eaten  thee  for  a  word  ;  for  thou 
art  not  so  long  by  the  head  as  honorificabilitudinitatibus ; 
thou  art  easier  swallowed  than  a  flap-dragon. 

Moth.    Peace ;   the  peal  begins. 

Arm.   Monsieur,  [To  HoL.]  are  you  not  lettered  if 

Moth.  Yes,  yes ;  he  teaches  boys  the  horn-book.  What 
is  a,  b,  spelt  backward  with  a  horn  on  his  head  ? 

Sol.    Ba,  pueritia,  with  a  horn  added. 

Moth.  Ba,  most  silly  sheep,  with  a  horn.  —  You  hear  his 
learning. 

Hoi.    Quis,  quis,  thou  consonant  ? 

Moth..  The  third  of  the  five  vowels,  if  you  repeat  them ; 
or  the  fifth,  if  I. 

Hoi.    I  will  repeat  them,  a,  e,  I. — 

Moth.    The  sheep ;  the  other  two  concludes  it ;  o,  u. 

Arm.  Now  by  the  salt  wave  of  the  Mediterraneum,  a 
sweet  touch,  a  quick  venew  of  wit.  Snip,  snap,  quick  and 
home :  it  rejoiceth  my  intellect ;  true  wit. 

Moth.  Offered  by  a  child  to  an  old  man ;  which  is  wit-old. 

Hq)1.    What  is  the  figure  ?     What  is  the  figure  ? 

Moth.    Horns. 

Hoi.    Thou  disputest  like  an  infant ;  go,  whip  thy  gig. 

Moth.  Lend  me  your  horn  to  make  one,  and  I  Avill  whip 
about  your  infamy  circum  circa.     A  gig  of  a  cuckold's  horn  ! 

Cost.  An  I  had  but  one  penny  in  the  world,  thou  shouldst 
have  it  to  buy  gingerbread.  Hold,  there  is  the  very  remu- 
neration I  had  of  thy  master,  thou  half-penny  purse  of  wit, 
thou  pigeon-egg  of  discretion.     0,  an  the  heavens  were  so 


4S8  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  [Act  V 

pleased,  th:it  thou  wcrt  but  mj  bastard  !  What  a  joyful 
father  Avouldst  thou  make  me  !  Go  to ;  thou  hast  it  ad 
ihttu/hiU,  at  the  fingers'  ends,  as  they  say. 

UoL    0,  I  smell  false  Latin ;  dunghill  for  unguem. 

Arm.  Arts-man,  prseavibula ;  we  Avill  be  singled  from 
the  barbarous.  Do  you  not  educate  youth  at  the  charge- 
house  on  the  top  of  the  mountain  ? 

Mol.    Or,  mons,  the  hill. 

Ann.    At  your  sweet  pleasure,  for  the  mountain. 

HoL    I  do,  sans  question. 

Arm.  Sir,  it  is  the  king's  most  sweet  pleasure  and 
affection,  to  congratulate  the  princess  at  her  pavilion,  in 
the  posteriors  of  this  day;  which  the  rude  multitude  call 
the  afternoon. 

Hoi.  The  posterior  of  the  day,  most  generous  sir,  is  liable, 
congruent,  and  measurable  for  the  afternoon.  The  word  is 
well  culled,  chose ;  sweet  and  apt,  I  do  assure  you,  sir,  I  do 
assure. 

Arm.  Sir,  the  king  is  a  noble  gentleman ;  and  my  fami- 
liar, I  do  assure  you,  very  good  friend.  —  For  what  is  in- 
ward between  us,  let  it  pass. —  I  do  beseech  thee,  remember 
thy  courtesy  ;  —  I  beseech  thee,  apparel  thy  head ;  —  and 
among  other  importunate  and  most  serious  designs,  —  and 
of  great  import  indeed,  too  ;  —  but  let  that  pass  ;  —  for  I 
must  tell  thee,  it  will  please  his  grace  (by  the  world)  some- 
time to  lean  upon  my  poor  shoulder ;  and  with  his  royal 
finger,  thus,  dally  with  my  excrement,  with  my  mustachio ; 
but,  sweet  heart,  let  that  pass.  By  the  world,  I  recount 
no  fable  ;  some  certain  special  honors  it  pleaseth  his  great- 
ness to  impart  to  Armado,  a  soldier,  a  man  of  travel,  that 
hath  seen  the  world;  but  let  that  pass. — The  very  all  of  all 
is, —  but,  sweet  heart,  I  do  implore  secrecy, —  that  the  king 
would  have  me  present  the  princess,  sweet  chuck,  with  some 
delightful  ostentation,  or  show,  or  pageant,  or  antic,  or  fire- 
work. Kow,  understanding  that  the  curate  and  your  sweet 
self  are  good  at  such  eruptions,  and  sudden  breaking  out 
of  mirth,  as  it  were,  I  have  acquainted  you  withal,  to  the 
end  to  crave  your  assistance. 

JS^ol.  Sir,  you  shall  present  before  her  the  nine  worthies. 
— Sir  Nathaniel,  as  concerning  some  entertainment  of  time, 
some  show  in  the  posterior  of  this  day,  to  be  rendered  by 
our  assistance, — the  king's  command,  and  this  most  gallant, 
illustrate,  and  learned  gentleman,  —  before  the  princess;  I 
say,  none  so  fit  as  to  present  the  nine  worthies. 

Nath.  Where  will  you  find  men  worthy  enough  to  present 
them 


Act  v.]  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  489 

Hol.  Joshua,  yourself;  myself,  or  this  gallant  gentleman, 
Judas  Maccabeus ;  this  swain,  because  of  his  great  limb  or 
joint,  shall  pass  Pompey  the  Great;  the  page,  Hercules. 

Arm.  Pardon,  sir,  error ;  he  is  not  quantity  enough  for 
that  •worthy's  thumb  ;  he  is  not  so  big  as  the  end  of  his  club. 

Sol.  Shall  I  have  audience  ?  He  shall  present  Herculea 
in  minority ;  his  enter  and  exit  shall  be  strangling  a  snake ; 
and  I  will  have  an  apology  for  that  purpose. 

Moth.  An  excellent  device  !  So,  if  any  of  the  audience 
hiss,  you  may  cry.  Well  done,  Hercules  !  JVow  thou  c7-ushe%t 
the  snake !  That  is  the  "way  to  make  an  offence  gracious : 
though  few  have  the  grace  to  do  it. 

Arm.    For  the  rest  of  the  worthies  ? — 

Hol.    I  will  play  three  myself. 

Moth.    Thrice  worthy  gentleman  ! 

Arm.    Shall  I  tell  you  a  thing  ? 

Hol.    We  attend. 

Arm.  We  will  have,  if  this  fadge  not,  an  antic.  I  beseech 
you,  follow. 

Hol.  Via,  goodman  Dull !  Thou  hast  spoken  no  word 
all  this  while. 

Dull.    Nor  understood  none  neither,  sir. 

Hol.    Allans !  we  will  employ  thee. 

Dull.  I'll  make  one  in  a  dance,  or  so ;  or  I  will  play  on 
the  tabor  to  the  worthies,  and  let  them  dance  the  hay. 

Hol.    Most  dull,  honest  Dull,  to  our  sport,  away. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.     Another  part  of  the  same.     Before  the 
Princess's  Pavilion. 

Huter  the  Princess,  Katharine,  Rosaline,  and  Maria. 

Prin.    Sweet  hearts,  we  shall  be  rich  ere  we  depart, 
If  fairings  come  thus  plentifully  in. 
A  lady  walled  about  with  diamonds  !  — 
Look  you,  what  I  have  from  the  loving  king. 

Ros.    Madam,  came  nothing  else  along  with  that  ? 

Prin.    Nothing  but  this  ?     Yes,  as  much  love  in  rhyme, 
As  would  be  crammed  up  in  a  sheet  of  paper, 
Writ  on  both  sides  the  leaf,  margent  and  all!* 
That  he  was  fain  to  seal  on  Cupid's  name. 

Ros.    That  was  the  way  to  make  his  god-head  wax; 
For  he  hath  been  five  thousand  years  a  boy. 

Kath.    Ay,  and  a  shrewd  unhappy  gallows  too. 

Ros.    You'll  ne'er  be  friends  with  him:  he  killed  your 
sister. 


490  LOVE'S    LABOR'S    LOST.  [Act  V 

Kath     He  made  her  melancholy,  sad,  and  heavy; 
And  so  she  died.     Had  she  been  light  like  you, 
Of  such  a  merry,  nimble,  stirring  spirit. 
She  might  have  been  a  grandam  ere  she  died ! 
And  so  ma}'^  you ;  for  a  light  heart  lives  long, 

Eos.    What's  your  dark    meaning,  mouse,  of  this  light 
word  ? 

Kath.    A  light  condition  in  a  beauty  dark. 

Mos.    We  need  more  light  to  find  your  meaning  out. 

Kath.    You'll  mar  the  light  by  taking  it  in  snuff: 
Therefore  I'll  darkly  end  the  argument. 

Ros.    Look,  what  you  do,  you  do  it  still  i'the  dark. 

Kath.    So  do  not  you ;  for  you  are  a  light  wench. 

Ros.    Indeed.  I  weigh  not  you ;  and  therefore  light. 

Kath.    You  weigh  me  not, — 0,  that's  you  care  not  for  me. 

Ros.    Great  reason ;  for,  past  cure  is  still  past  care. 

Prin.    Well  bandied  both ;  a  set  of  wit  well  played 
But,  Rosaline,  you  have  a  favor  too. 
Who  sent  it,  and  what  is  it  ? 

Ros.  I  would  you  knew; 

And  if  my  face  were  but  as  fair  as  yours, 
My  favor  Avere  as  great ;  be  witness  this. 
Nay,  I  have  verses  too,  I  thank  Biron ; 
The  numbers  true ;  and,  were  the  numbering  too, 
I  were  the  fairest  goddess  on  the  ground. 
I  am  compared  to  twenty  thousand  fairs. 
0,  he  hath  drawn  my  picture  in  his  letter ! 

Prin.    Any  thing  like  ? 

Ros.    Much,  in  the  letters ;  nothing  in  the  praise. 

Prin.    Beauteous  as  ink ;  a  good  conclusion. 

Kath.    Fair  as  a  text  B  in  a  copy-book. 

Ros.  'Ware  pencils  !    How  !    Let  me  not  die  your  debtor, 
My  red  dominical,  my  golden  letter. 
0  that  your  face  were  not  so  full  of  O's ! 

Kath.    A  pox  of  that  jest !     And  beshrew  all  shrews ! 

Prin.    But  what  was  sent  to  you  from  fair  Dumain  ? 

Kath.    Madam,  this  glove. 

Prin.  Did  he  not  send  you  twain? 

Kath.    Yes,  madam ;  and  moreover. 
Some  thousand  verses  of  a  faithful  lover; 
A  huge  translation  of  hypocrisy. 
Vilely  compiled,  profound  simplicity. 

Mar.    This,  and  these  pearls,  to  me  sent  Longaville; 
The  letter  is  too  long  by  half  a  mile. 

Priyi.    I  think  no  less.     Dost  thou  not  wish  in  heart, 
The  chain  were  longer,  and  the  letter  short  ? 


ActV]         LOVE'S    LABOR'S    LOST.  491 

Mar.    Ay,  or  I  would  these  hands  might  never  part. 
JPrin.    We  are  wise  girls,  to  mock  our  lovers  so. 
Mos.    They  are  worse  fools  to  purchase  mocking  so. 
That  same  Biron  I'll  tortui'e  ere  I  go. 

0  that  I  knew  he  were  but  in  by  the  week ! 
How  I  would  make  him  fawn,  and  beg  and  seek, 
And  wait  the  season,  and  observe  the  times. 
And  spend  his  prodigal  wits  in  bootless  rhymes ; 
And  shape  his  service  wholly  to  my  behests ; 

And  make  him  proud  to  make  me  proud  that  jests ! 
So  potent-like  would  I  o'ersway  his  state. 
That  he  should  be  my  fool,  and  I  his  fate. 

Prin.  None  are  so  surely  caught,  when  they  are  catched, 
As  wit  turned  fool.     Folly,  in  wisdom  hatched. 
Hath  wisdom's  warrant,  and  the  help  of  school ; 
And  wit's  own  grace  to  grace  a  learned  fool. 

Ro8.    The  blood  of  youth  burns  not  with  such  excess, 
As  gravity's  revolt  to  wantonness. 

3Iar.    Folly  in  fools  bears  not  so  strong  a  note, 
As  foolery  in  the  wise,  when  wit  doth  dote ; 
Since  all  the  power  thereof  it  doth  apply, 
To  prove,  by  wit,  worth  in   simplicity. 

Enter  Botet. 

Prin.    Here  comes  Boyet,  and  mirth  is  in  his  face. 

Boyet.    0,  I  am  stabbed  with  laughter !     Where's   her 
grace  ? 

Prin.    Thy  news,  Boyet? 

Boyet.  Prepare,  madam,  prepare  !  — 

Arm,  wenches,  arm !     Encounters  mounted  are 
Against  your  peace.     Love  doth  approach  disguised. 
Armed  in  arguments.     You'll  be  surprised: 
Muster  your  wits ;  stand  in  your  own  defence ; 
Or  hide  your  heads  like  cowards,  and  fly  hence. 

Prin.    Saint  Dennis  to  saint  Cupid !     What  are  they, 
That  charge  their  breath  against  us  ?  say,  scout,  say. 

Boyet.    Under  the  cool  shade  of  a  sycamore, 

1  thought  to  close  mine  eyes  some  half  an  hour; 
When,  lo  !  to  interrupt  my  purposed  rest. 
Toward  that  shade  I  might  behold  addressed 
The  king  and  his  companions.     Warily 

I  stole  into  a  neighbor  thicket  by. 
And  overheard  what  you  shall  overhear ; 
That,  by  and  by,  disguised  they  will  be  here. 
Their  herald  is  a  pretty,  knavish  page, 
That  well  by  heart  hath  conned  his  embassage. 


492  LOVE'S   LABOR'S    LOFT.  [Act  V 

Action,  and  accent,  did  tlicy  tcacli  him  there, 

Thus  must  thou  spealc^  and  thus  thy  hody  hear 

And  ever  and  anon  they  made  a  doubt, 

Presence  majcstical  would  put  him  out ; 

For^  quoth  the  king,  an  angel  shalt  thou  see, 

Yet  fear  not  thou,  but  speak  audaciously. 

The  boy  replied,  A71  angel  is  not  evil, 

I  should  have  feared  her,  had  she  been  a  devil. 

With  that  all  laughed,  and  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder ; 

Making  the  bold  wag  by  their  praises  bolder. 

One  rubbed  his  elbow,  thus ;  and  fleered,  and  swore, 

A  better  speech  was  never  spoke  before ; 

Another,  with  his  finger  and  his  thumb. 

Cried,    Via!  we  will  do't,  come  what  will  come: 

The  third  he  capered,  and  cried.  All  goes  ivell ; 

The  fourth  turned  on  the  toe,  and  down  he  fell. 

With  that  they  all  did  tumble  on  the  ground, 

With  such  a  zealous  laughter,  so  profound, 

That  in  this  spleen  ridiculous  appears. 

To  check  their  folly,  passion's  solemn  tears. 

Prin   But  what,  but  what,  come  they  to  visit  us  ? 

Boyet.    They  do,  they  do  ;  and  are  appareled  thuSj^ 
Like  Muscovites,  or  Russians.     As  I  guess,     v,--^  V^jeAji^ 
The  purpose  is,  to  parle,  to  court,  and  dance ; 
And  every  one  his  love-feat  will  advance 
Unto  his  several  mistress ;  which  they'll  know 
By  favors  several,  which  they  did  bestow. 

Prin.    And  will  they  so  ?     The  gallants  shall  be  tasked ; 
For,  ladies,  we  will  every  one  be  masked ; 
And  not  a  man  of  them  shall  have  the  grace, 
Despite  of  suit,  to  see  a  lady's  face. — 
Hold,  Rosaline,  this  favor  thou  shalt  wear ; 
And  then  the  king  will  court  thee  for  his  dear: 
Hold,  take  thou  this,  my  sweet,  and  give  me  tnine ; 
So  shall  Bix'on  take  me  for  Rosaline. — 
And  change  your  favors  too ;  so  shall  your  loves 
Woo  contrary,  deceived  by  these  removes. 

Ros.    Come  on,  then  ;  wear  the  favors  most  in  sight. 

Kath.    But,  in  this  changing,  what  is  your  intent  ? 

Prin.    The  effect  of  my  intent  is  to  cross  theirs. 
They  do  it  but  in  mocking  merriment ; 
And  mock  for  mock  is  only  my  intent. 
Their  several  counsels  they  unbosom  shall 
To  love?  mistook;  and  so  be  mocked  withal, 
Upon  the  next  occasion  that  we  meet, 
With  visages  displayed,  to  talk  and  greet. 


Act  v.]  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  493 

Jios.    Uut  sliall  we  dance,  if  they  desire  us  to't? 

Prin.    No ;  to  the  death,  we  will  not  move  a  foot ; 
Nor  to  their  penned  speech  render  we  no  grace ; 
But  while  'tis  spoke,  each  turn  away  her  face. 

Boyet.    Why,  that  contempt  will  kill  the  speaker's  heart, 
And  quite  divorce  his  memory  from  his  part. 

Prin.    Therefore  I  do  it ;  and,  I  make  no  doubt, 
The  rest  will  ne'er  come  in,  if  he  be  out. 
There's  no  such  sport,  as  sport  by  sport  o'erthrown; 
To  make  theirs  ours,  and  ours  none  but  our  own. 
So  shall  we  stay,  mocking  intended  game ; 
And  they,  well  mocked,  depart  away  with  shame. 

[^Trumjyets  sound  tvifhin. 

Boyet.    The  trumpet  sounds  ;    be  masked ;    the  maskers 
come.  \_The  ladies  mask. 

Enter  tlie  King,  Biron,  Longaville,  and  Dumaijt,  in 
Russian  habits,  and  masked;  Moth,  Musicians,  and 
Attendants. 

Moth.    All  hail,  the  richest  beauties  on  the  earth ! 

Boyet.    Be^auties  no  richer  than  rich  taffeta. 

Moth.     A  holy  pared  of  the  fairest  dames, 

[The  ladies  turn  their  backs  to  him. 
That  ever  turned  their  —  hacks  —  to  mortal  views! 

Biron.    Their  eyes,  villain,  their  eyes. 

Moth.    That  ever  turned  their  eyes  to  mortal vietos  !  Out — 

Boyet.    True ;  out,  indeed. 

Moth.    Out  of  your  favors,  heavenly  spirits,  vouchsafe 
Not  to  behold  — 

Biron.    Once  to  behold,  rogue. 

Moth.    Once  to  behold  with  your  sun-beamed  eyes, 

with  your  sun-beamed  eyes 

Boyet.    They  will  not  answer  to  that  epithet; 
You  were  best  call  it  daughter-beamed  eyes. 

Moth.    They  do  not  mark  me,  and  that  brings  me  out. 

Biron.    Is  this  your  perfectness?     Begone,  you  rogue. 

Ros.    What  would  these  strangers  ?     Know  their  minds, 
Boyet. 
If  they  do  speak  our  language,  'tis  our  will 
That  some  plain  man  recount  their  purposes. 
Know  what  they  would. 

Boyet.    What  would  you  with  the  princess  ? 

Biron.    Nothing  but  peace  and  gentle  visitation. 

Ros.    What  would  they,  say  they  ? 

Boyet.    Nothing  bat  peace  and  gentle  visitation. 

Ros.    Why  that  they  have ;  and  bid  them  so  begone. 

Boyet.    She  says  you  have  it,  and  you  may  be  gone, 
2r 


494  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  [Act  "V 

King.    Say  to  her  we  have  measured  many  miles, 
To  tread  a  measure  with  her  on  tliis  grass. 

Boyd.    They  say  that  they  have  measured  many  a  mile, 
To  tread  a  measure  with  you  on  this  grass. 

Jlos.    It  is  not  so.     Ask  them  how  many  inches 
Is  in  one  mile ;  if  they  have  measured  many, 
The  measure  then  of  one  is  easily  told. 

Boyd.    If  to  come  hither  you  have  measured  miles, 
And  many  miles,  the  princess  bids  you  tell 
How  many  inches  do  fill  up  one  mile. 

Biron.    Tell  her  we  measure  them  by  weary  steps. 

Boyd.    She  hears  herself. 

Ros.  How  many  weary  steps, 

Of  many  weary  miles  you  have  o'ergone, 
Are  numbered  in  the  travel  of  one  mile  ? 

Biron.    We  number  nothing  that  we  spend  for  you; 
Our  duty  is  so  rich,  so  infinite. 
That  we  may  do  it  still  without  account. 
Vouchsafe  to  show  the  sunshine  of  your  face, 
That  we,  like  savages,  may  worship  it. 

Ros.    My  face  is  but  a  moon,  and  clouded  too. 

King.  Blessed  are  clouds,  to  do  as  such  clouds  do ! 
Vouchsafe,  bright  moon,  and  these  thy  stars,  to  shine 
(Those  clouds  remover!)  upon  our  watery  eyne. 

Ros.    0  vain  petitioner  !     Beg  a  greater  matter ; 
Thou  now  request'st  but  moonshine  in  the  water. 

King.    Then  in  our  measure  vouchsafe  but  one  change ; 
Thou  bidd'st  me  beg;  this  begging  is  not  strange. 

Ros.    Play,  music,  then ;  nay,  you  must  do  it  soon. 

\_Music  plays. 
Not  yet. — No  dance; — thus  change  I  like  the  moon. 

King.    Will  you  not  dance  ?     How    come  you  thus  es- 
tranged ? 

Ros.    You  took  the  moon  at  full ;  but  now  she's  changed. 

King.    Yet  still  she  is  the  moon,  and  I  the  man. 
The  music  plays ;  vouchsafe  some  motion  to  it. 

Ros.    Our  ears  vouchsafe  it. 

King.  But  your  legs  should  do  it. 

Ros.    Since  you  are  strangers,  and  come  here  by  chance, 
We'll  not  be  nice.     Take  hands ;  —  we  will  not  dance. 

King.    Why  take  we  hands,  then  ? 

Ros.  Only  to  part  fi'iends. — 

Ocurt'sy,  sweet  hearts ;  and  so  the  measure  ends. 

King.    More  measure  of  this  measure ;  be  not  nice. 

Ros.    We  can  afford  no  more  at  such  a  price. 

King.    Prize  you  yourselves.    What  buys  your  company  7 

Kcs.    Your  absence  only. 


ActY.]         LOVE'S    LABOR'S   LOST.  495 

King.  That  can  never  be. 

Ros.    Then  cannot  we  be  bought ;  and  so  adieu ; 
Twice  to  your  visor,  and  half  once  to  you ! 

King.    If  you  deny  to  dance,  let's  hold  more  chat. 

Ros.    In  private  then. 

King.  I  am  best  pleased  with  that. 

\_They  converse  apart. 

JSiron.  White-handed  mistress,  one  sweet  word  with  thee. 

Prin.  Honey,  and  milk,  and  sugar ;  there  is  three. 

Biron.  Nay  then,  two  treys,  (an  if  you  grow  so  nice,) 
Metheglin,  wort,  and  malmsey.  —  Well  run,  dice! 
There's  half  a  dozen  sweets. 

Prin.  Seventh  sweet,  adieu : 

Since  you  can  cog,  I'll  play  no  more  with  you. 

Biron.    One  word  in  secret. 

Prin.  Let  it  not  oe  sweet. 

Biron.    Thou  griev'st  my  gali. 

Prin.  Gall?    Bitter. 

Biron.  Therefore  meet. 

\_Tliey  co7iverse  apart. 

Bum.  Will  you  vouchsafe  with  me  to  change  a  word  ? 

Mar.    Name  it. 

Bum.  Fair  lady, — 

Mar.  Say  you  so  ?    Fair  lord, — 

Take  that  for  your  fair  lady. 

Bum.  Please  it  you, 

As  much  in  private,  and  I'll  bid  adieu. 

\Tliey  converse  apart. 

KatTi.  What,  was  your  visor  made  without  a  tongue  ? 

Long.    I  know  the  reason,  lady,  why  you  ask. 

Kath.    0,  for  your  reason  !  quickly,  sir ;  I  long. 

Long.    You  have  a  double  tongue  within  your  mask, 
And  would  afford  my  speechless  visor  half, 

Kath.    Veal,  quoth  the  Dutchman. — Is  not  veal  a  calf? 

Long.    A  calf,  fair  lady? 

Kath.  No,  a  fair  lord  calf. 

Long.    Let's  part  the  Avord. 

Kath.  No,  I'll  not  be  your  half. 

Take  all,  and  wean  it ;  it  may  prove  an  ox. 

Long.  Look  how  you  butt  yourself  in  these  sharp  mocks ! 
Will  you  give  horns,  chaste  lady  ?     Do  not  so. 

Kath.    Then  die  a  calf,  before  your  horns  do  grow. 

Long.    One  word  in  private  with  you,  ere  I  die. 

Kath.    Bleat  softly,  then ;  the  butcher  hears  you  cry. 

\They  converse  apart, 

Boyet.    The  tongues  of  mocking  wenches  are  as  keen 
As  is  the  razor's  edge  invisible, 


496  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  [Act  V. 

Cutting  a  smaller  hair  than  may  he  seen ; 

Above  the  sense  of  sense.     So  sensible 
Seemeth  their  conference  ;  their  conceits  have  wings, 
Fleeter  than  arrows,  bullets,  wind,  thought,  swifter  things. 

Jios.  Not  one  word  more,  my  maids ;  break  off,  break  off. 

Biron.    By  Heaven,  all  dry-heaten  with  pure  scoff! 

King.  Farewell,  mad  wenches ;  you  have  simple  wits. 
[Exeunt  King,  Lords,  Moth,  Music,  and  Attendants. 

Prin.    Twenty  adieus,  my  frozen  Muscovites. — 
Are  these  the  breed  of  wits  so  wondered  at? 

Boyet.  Tapers  they  are,  with  your  sweet  breaths  puffed  out. 

Ros.  Well-liking  wits  they  have ;  gross,  gross ;  fat,  fat. 

Po-in.    0  poverty  in  wit,  kingly-poor  flout ! 
Will  they  not,  think  you,  hang  themselves  to-night? 

Or  ever,  but  in  visors,  show  their  faces? 
This  pert  Biron  was  out  of  countenance  quite. 

Ros.    0  !    they  were  all  in  lamentable  cases  ! 
The  king  was  weeping-ripe  for  a  good  word. 

Prin.    Biron  did  swear  himself  out  of  all  suit. 

Mar.    Dumain  was  at  my  service,  and  his  sword. 
No  point,  quoth  I ;  my  servant  straight  was  mute.    ' 

Kath.    Lord  Longaville  said,  I  came  o'er  his  heart; 
And  trow  you  what  he  called  me? 

Pnn.  Qualm,  perhaps. 

Kath.    Yes,  in  good  faith.  ^^- 

Prin.  Go,  sickness,  as  thou  art! 

Ros.    Well,  better  wits  have  worn  plain  .statute^caps.  ■    '^-^ 
But  will  you  heaF?     The  king  is  my  love  sworn. 

Pri7i.    And  quick  Biron  hath  plighted  faith  to  me. 

Kath.    And  Longaville  was  for  my  service  born. 

3Iar.    Dumain  is  mine,  as  sure  as  hark  on  tree. 

Boytt.    Madam,  and  pretty  mistresses,  give  ear. 
Immediately  they  will  again  be  here 
[n  their  own  shapes;  for  it  can  never  be, 
They  will  digest  this  harsh  indignity. 

Prin.    Will  they  return? 

^ovet.  They  will,  they  will,  God  knows ; 

And  leap  for  joy,  though  they  are  lame  with  blows. 
Therefore,  change  favors;  and,  when  they  repair, 
Blow  like  sweet  roses  in  this  summer  air. 

Prin.    How  blow  ?  how  blow  ?    Speak  to  be  understood 

Boyet.    Fair  ladies,  masked,  are  roses  in  their  bud. 
Dismasked,  their  damask  sweet  commixture  shown, 
Are  angels  veiling  clouds,  or  roses  blown. 

Prin.    Avaunt,  perplexity!     What  shall  we  do, 
If  they  return  in  their  own  shapes  to  woo? 


ActV.]         LOVE'S    LABOR'S    LOST.  497 

Ros.    Good  madam,  if  by  me  you'll  be  advised, 
Let's  mock  them  still,  as  well  known,  as  disguised. 
Let  us  complain  to  them  what  fools  were  here, 
Disguised  like  Muscovites,  in  shapeless  gear ; 
And  wonder  what  they  were ;  and  to  what  end 
Their  shallow  shows,  and  prologue  vilely  penned, 
And  their  rough  carriage  so  ridiculous, 
Should  be  presented  at  our  tent  to  us. 

Boyet.    Ladies,  withdraw ;   the  gallants  are  at  hand. 

Prin.    Whip  to  our  tents,  as  roes  run  over  land, 

[Exeunt  Princess,  Eos.,  Kath.,  and  Maria. 

Enter  the  King,  Biron,  Longaville,  and  Dumain,  in  their 
'proper  In  tints. 

King.    Fair  sir,  God  save  you  !     Where  is  the  princess  ? 

Boyet    Gone  to  her  tent.     Please  it  your  majesty. 
Command  me  any  service  to  her  thither? 

King.    That  she  vouchsafe  me  audience  for  one  word. 

Boyet.    I  will ;  and  so  will  she,  I  know,  my  lord.    \Exit. 

Biron.   This  fellow  pecks  up  wit,  as  pigeons  peas ; 
And  utters  it  again  when  Jove  doth  please. 
He  is  wit's  pedler,  and  retails  his  wares 
At  wakes  and  wassels,  meetings,  markets,  fairs ; 
And  we  that  sell  by  gross,  the  Lord  doth  know, 
Have  not  the  grace  to  grace  it  with  such  show. 
This  gallant  pins  the  wenches  on  his  sleeve : 
Had  he  been  Adam,  he  had  tempted  Eve. 
He  can  carve  too,  and  lisp.     Why  this  is  he 
That  kissed  away  his  hand  in  courtesy; 
This  is  the  ape  of  form,  monsieur  the  nice. 
That,  when  he  plays  at  tables,  chides  the  dice 
In  honorable  terms ;  nay,  he  can  sing 
A  mean  most  meanly ;  and,  in  ushering, 
Mend  him  who  can.     The  ladies  call  him  sweet; 
The  stairs,  as  he  treads  on  them,  kiss  his  feet. 
This  is  the  flower  that  smiles  on  every  one, 
To  show  his  teeth  as  white  as  whales  bone ; 
And  consciences  that  will  not  die  in  debt. 
Pay  him  the  due  of  honey-tongued  Boyet. 

King.    A  blister  on  his  sweet  tongue,  with  my  heart, 
That  put  Armado's  page  out  of  his  part  J 

Enter  the  Princess,  ushered  hy  Boyet  ;  Rosaline,  Maria, 
Katharine,  and  Attendants. 

Biron.    See  where  it  comes ! — Behavior,  what  wert  thou, 
Till  this  man  showed  thee?  and  what  art  tliou  now? 
Vol.  L  — 32  2r* 


498  LOVE'S    LABOR'S    LOST.         [Act  V 

King.    All  liail,  sweet  madam,  and  fair  time  of  day ' 

Pfin.    Fair,  in  all  hail,  is  foul,  as  I  conceive. 

Ji/)i(/.    Construe  my  speeches  better,  if  you  may. 

Prin.    ^riicn  wish  me  better;  I  will  give  you  leave. 

King-    We  came  to  visit  you ;  and  purpose  now 
To  lead  you  to  our  court ;   vouchsafe  it  then. 

Prin.  This  field  shall  hold  me;  and  so  hold  your  vow. 
Nor  God,  nor  I,  delight  in  perjured  men. 

King.    Rebuke  me  not  for  that  which  you  provoke; 
The  virtue  of  your  eye  must  break  my  oath. 

Prin.  You  nickname  virtue  ;  vice  you  should  have  spoke, 
For  virtue's  office  never  breaks  men's  troth. 
Now,  by  my  maiden  honor,  yet  as  pure 

As  the  unsullied  lily,  I  protest, 
A  world  of  torments  though  I  should  endure, 

I  would  not  yield  to  be  your  house's  guest ;  ♦ 
So  much  I  hate  a  breaking-cause  to  be 
Of  heavenly  oaths,  vowed  with  integrity. 

King.    0,  you  have  lived  in  desolation  here, 
Unseen,  unvisited,  much  to  our  shame. 

Prin.    Not  so,  my  lord ;  it  is  not  so,  I  swear ; 
We  have  had  pastimes  here,  and  pleasant  game. 
A  mess  of  Russians  left  us  but  of  late. 

King.  How,  madam  ?    Russians  ? 

Prin.  Ay,  in  truth,  my  lord; 

Trim  gallants,  full  of  courtship,  and  of  state. 

Ros.    Madam,  speak  true.  —  It  is  not  so,  my  lord; 
My  lady,  (to  the  manner  of  the  days,) 
In  courtesy,  gives  undeserving  praise. 
We  four,  indeed,  confronted  here  with  four 
In  Russian  habit.     Here  they  staid  an  hour, 
And  talked  apace ;  and  in  that  hour,  my  lord, 
They  did  not  bless  us  with  one  happy  word. 
I  dare  not  call  them  fools ;  but  this  I  think, 
When  they  are  thirsty,  fools  would  fain  have  drink. 

Biron.    This  jest  is  dry  to  me.  —  Fair,  gentle  sweet, 
Your  wit  makes  wise  things  foolish ;  when  we  greet 
With  eyes  best  seeing  heaven's  fiery  eye, 
By  light  we  lose  light.     Your  capacity 
Is  of  that  nature,  that  to  your  huge  store 
Wise  things  seem  foolish,  and  rich  things  but  poor. 

lioH.    This  proves  you  wise  and  rich ;  for  in  my  eye, — 

Biron.    I  am  a  fool,  and  full  of  poverty. 

Ros.    But  that  you  tdke  what  doth  to  you  belong, 
It  were  a  fault  to  snatch  words  from  my  tongue. 

Biron.    0,  I  am  yours,  and  all  that  I  possess. 


Act  v.]         LOVE'S   LABOR'S    LOST.  499 

Mos.    All  the  fool  mine  ? 

Biron.  I  cannot  give  you  less. 

Ros.    Which  of  the  visors  was  it  that  you  wore  ? 
Biron.  Where  ?  when  ?  what  visor  ?  why  demand  you  this " 
Ros.    There,  then,  that  visor  ;  that  superfluous  case, 
That  hid  the  worse,  and  showed  the  better  face. 

King.   We  are  descried ;  they'll  mock  us  now  downright. 

Bum.    Let  us  confess,  and  turn  it  to  a  jest. 

Prin.    Amazed,  my  lord?    Why  looks  your  highness  sad? 

Ros.    Help,  hold  his  brows  !  he'll  swoon  !     Why  look  you 
pale  ?  — 
Sea-sick,  I  think,  coming  from  Muscovy. 

Biron.  Thus  pour  the  stars  down  plagues  for  perjury. 

Can  any  face  of  brass  hold  longer  out?  — 
Here  stand  I,  lady ;  dart  thy  skill  at  me  ; 

Bruise  me  with  scorn,  confound  me  with  a  flout ; 
Thrust  thy  sharp  wit  quite  through  my  ignorance  : 

Cut  me  to  pieces  with  thy  keen  conceit ; 
And  I  will  wish  thee  never  more  to  dance, 

Nor  never  more  in  Russian  habit  Avait. 
0 !  never  will  I  trust  to  speeches  penned, 

Nor  to  the  motion  of  a  schoolboy's  tongue ; 
Nor  never  come  in  visor  to  my  friend ; 

Nor  woo  in  rhyme,  like  a  blind  harper's  song. 
Tafi'eta  phrases,  silken  terms  precise, 

Three-piled  hyperboles,  spruce  aff"ectation. 
Figures  pedantical ;  these  summer-flies 

Have  blown  me  full  of  maggot  ostentation. 
T  do  forswear  them,  and  I  here  protest. 

By  this  wliite  glove,  (how  white  the  hand,  God  knows !) 
Henceforth  my  wooing  mind  shall  be  expressed 

In  russet  yeas,  and  honest  kersey  noes. 
And,  to  begin,  wench,  —  so  God  help  me,  la!  — 
My  love  to  thee  is  sound,  sans  crack  or  flaw. 

Ros.    Sans  sans,  I  pray  you. 

Biron.    Yet  I  have  a  trick 
Of  the  old  rage.  —  Bear  Avith  me;  I  am  sick; 
I'll  leave  it  by  degrees.     Soft,  let  us  see ;  —        ^  j<^ 

Write,  Lord  have  mercy  on  its,  on  those  three ;  -^^^^f  vl-^t/^ 
They  are  infected ;  in  their  hearts  it  lies ; 
They  have  the  plague,  and  caught  it  of  your  eyes. 
These  lords  are  visited ;  you  are  not  fi'ee, 
For  the  Lord's  tokens  on  you  do  I  see. 

Prin.    No,  they  are  free,  that  gave  these  tokens  to  us. 

Biron.    Our  states  are  forfeit;  seek  not  to  undo  us. 


500  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  [Act  V 

fios.    It  is  not  so ;  for  how  can  this  be  true, 
That  jou  stand  forfeit,  being  those  that  sue? 

Biron.    Peace ;  for  I  -will  not  have  to  do  with  you. 

Jios.    Nor  shall  not,  if  I  do  as  I  intend. 

Biron.    Speak  for  yourselves ;  my  Avit  is  at  an  end. 

King.  Teach  us,  sweet  madam,  for  our  rude  transgression, 
Some  fair  excuse. 

Prin.  The  fairest  is  confession. 

Were  you  not  here,  but  even  now,  disguised? 

King.    Madam,  I  was. 

Prin.  And  were  you  well  advised? 

King.    I  was,  fair  madam. 

Prin.  When  you  then  were  here, 

What  did  you  whisper  in  your  lady's  ear  ? 

King.    That  more  than  all  the  world  I  did  respect  her. 

Prin.  When  she  shall  challenge  this,  you  will  rej'ect  her. 

King.    Upon  mine  honor,  no, 

Prin.  Peace,  peace,  forbear; 

Your  oath  once  broke,  you  force  not  to  forswear. 

King.    Despise  me  when  I  break  this  oath  of  mine. 

Prin.    I  will;  and  therefore  keep  it.  —  Rosaline, 
What  did  the  Russian  whisper  in  your  ear  ? 

Ro§.    Madam,  he  swore  that  he  did  hold  me  dear 
As  precious  eyesight ;  and  did  value  me 
Above  this  world  ;  adding  thereto,  moreover, 
That  he  would  wed  me,  or  else  die  my  lover. 

Prin.    God  give  thee  joy  of  him  !     The  noble  lord 
Most  honorably  doth  uphold  his  word. 

King.    What  mean  you,  madam  ?     By  my  life,  my  troth, 
I  never  swore  this  lady  such  an  oath. 

Ros.    By  Heaven,  you  did;  and  to  confirm  it  plain, 
You  gave  me  this ;  but  take  it,  sir,  again. 

King.    My  faith,  and  this,  the  princess  I  did  give; 
I  knew  her  by  this  jewel  on  her  sleeve. 

Prin.    Pardon  me,  sir,  this  jewel  did  she  wear ;        _^ 
And  lord  Biron,  I  thank  him,  is  my  dear. — 
What ;  will  you  have  me,  or  your  pearl  again  ? 

Biron.    Neither  of  either;  I  remit  both  twain. — 
I  see  the  trick  on't.  —  Here  was  a  consent 
(Knowmg  aforehand  of  our  merriment) 
To  dash  it  like  a  Christmas  comedy. 

Some  carry-tale,  some  please-man,  some  slight  zany  *€>o 

Some  mumble-news,  some  trencher-knight,  som^  Dick,^^^^  l\/r-^-> 
That  smiles  his  cheek  in  jeers,  and  knows  the  trie"! 
To  make  my  lady  laugh,  when  she's  disposed, — 
Told  our  intents  before;  which  once  disclosed, 


Act  v.]  LOVE'S    LABOR'S    LOST.  501 

The  ladies  did  change  favors ;  and  then  we, 

Following  the  signs,  wooed  but  the  sign  of  she. 

Now,  to  our  perjury  to  add  more  terror, 

We  are  again  forsworn;  iit  will  and  eiTor. 

Much  upon  this  it  is.  —  And  might  not  you        [^To  BoVET. 

Forestall  our  sport,  to  make  us  thus  untrue  ? 

Do  not  you  know  my  lady's  foot  by  the  squire, 

And  laugh  upon  the  apple  of  her  eye  ? 
And  stand  between  her  back,  sir,  and  the  fire, 

Holding  a  trencher,  jesting  merrily  ? 
You  put  our  page  out.     Go,  you  are  allowed ; 
Die  when  you  will,  a  smock  shall  be  your  shx-oud. 
You  leer  upon  me,  do  you?     There's  an  eye 
Wounds  like  a  leaden  sword. 

Boyet.  Full  merrily 

Hath  this  brave  manege,  this  career,  been  run. 

Biron.    Lo,  he  is  tilting  straight !     Peace ;  I  have  done. 

Enter  Costakd. 

Welcome,  pure  wit !     Thou  partest  a  fair  fray. 

Cost.    0  Lord,  sir,  they  would  know. 
Whether  the  three  worthies  shall  come  in,  or  no. 

Biron.    What,  are  there  but  three  ? 

Cost.  No,  sir ;  but  it  is  vara  fine, 

For  every  one  pursents  three. 

Biron.  And  three  times  thrice  is  nine. 

Cost.    Not    so,  sir ;    under  correction,  sir ;    I  hope  it  is 
not  so. 
You  cannot  beg  us,  sir,  I  can  assure  you,  sir ;  we  know  what 

we  know. 
I  hope,  sir,  three  times  thrice,  sir, — 

Biron.  Is  not  nine. 

Cost.  Under  correction,  sir,  we  know  whereuntil  it  doth 
amount. 

Biron.    By  Jove,  I  always  took  three  threes  for  nine. 

Cost.  0  Lord,  sir,  it  were  pity  you  should  get  your  living 
by  reckoning,  sir. 

Biron.    How  much  is  it? 

Cost.  0  Lord,  sir,  the  parties  themselves,  the  actors,  sir, 
will  show  whereuntil  it  doth  amount.  For  my  own  part,  I 
am,  as  they  say,  but  to  parfect  one  man,  — e'en  one  poor 
man.     Pompion  the  Great,  sir. 

Biron.    Art  thou  one  of  the  worthies  ? 

Cost.  It  pleased  them  to  think  me  worthy  of  Pompion  the 
Great.  For  mine  own  part,  I  know  not  the  degree  of  the 
worthy ;  but  I  am  to  stand  for  him. 


502  LOVE'S    LABOR'S    LOST.  [Act  V. 

Biron.    Go,  bid  them  prepare. 

Cost.    We  Avill  turn  it  finely  off,  sir ;  we  will  take  some 
care.  \_Exit  CosTARD. 

King.    Biron,  they  will  shame  us  ;  let  them  not  approach. 

Biro7i.  We  are  shame-proof,  my  lord  ;  and  'tis  some  policy 
T)  have  one  show  worse  than  the  king's  and  his  company. 

King.    I  say,  they  shall  not  come. 

Prin.    Nay,  my  good  lord,  let  me  o'errule  you  now ; 
That  sport  best  pleases  that  doth  least  know  how. 
Where  zeal  strives  to  content,  and  the  c  )ntents 
Die  in  the  zeal  of  them  which  it  presents. 
Their  form  confounded  makes  most  form  in  mirth, 
When  great  things  laboring  perish  in  their  birth. 

Biron.    A  right  description  of  our  sport,  my  lord. 

Enter  Armado. 

Arm.  Anointed,  I  implore  so  much  expense  of  thy  royal 
sweet  breath,  as  will  utter  a  brace  of  words. 

[Armado  converses  with  the  King,  and  delivers 
him  a  paper.^ 

Prin.    Doth  this  man  serve  God  ? 

Biron.    Why  ask  you? 

Prin.    He  speaks  not  like  a  man  of  God's  making. 

Aryn.  That's  all  one,  my  fair,  sweet,  honey  monarch ; 
for,  I  protest,  the  schoolmaster  is  exceeding  fantastical ;  too, 
too  vain  ;  too,  too  vain.  But  we  will  put  it,  as  they  say,  to 
fortuna  della  guerra.  I  wish  you  the  peace  of  mind,  most 
royal  couplement.  ^Exit  Armado. 

King.  Here  is  like  to  be  a  good  presence  of  worthies. 
He  presents  Hector  of  Troy ;  the  swain,  Pompey  the  Great ; 
the  parish  curate,  Alexander ;  Armado's  page,  Hercules ; 
the  pedant,  Judas  Machabreus. 

And  if  these  four  worthies  in  their  first  show  thrive, 
These  four  will  change  habits,  and  present  the  other  five. 

Biron.    There  is  five  in  the  first  show. 

King.    You  arc  deceived,  'tis  not  so. 

Biron.  The  pedant,  the  braggart,  the  hedge-priest,  the 
fool,  and  the  bo}^, — 

A  bare  throw  at  novum ;  and  the  whole  world  again. 
Cannot  prick  out  five  such,  take  each  one  in  his  vein 

King.    The  ship  is  under  sail,  and  here  she  comes  amain. 
\_Seats  brought  for  the  King,  Princess,  &c. 

Pageant  of  the  Nine    Worthiest. 


Acr  V^.]  LOVE'S    LABOR'S    LOST.  505? 

Enter  Costard  armed,  for  Pompey. 

Cost.   /  Pompey  am, — 

Boyet.  You  lie ;  you  are  not  he. 

Cost.    /  Pompey  am, — 

Boyet.  With  libbard's  head  on  knee. 

Biron.    Well  said,  old  mocker ;  I  must  needs  be  friends 
with  thee. 

Cost.    /  Pompey  am,  Pompey,  surnamed  the  Big, — 

Bum.    The  Great. 

Qo%t.    It  is  Great,  sir; — Pompey,  surnamed  tJie  Grreat ; 
That  oft  in  field,  ivith  targe  and  shield,  did  make  my  foe 

to  stveat ; 
And  travelling  along  this  coast,  I  here  am  come  by  chance. 
And  lay  my  arms  before  the  legs  of  this  sweet  lass  of  France. 
If  your  ladyship  would  say,  Thanks,  Pomjjey,  I  had  done. 

Prin.    Great  thanks,  great  Pompey. 

Qost.  'Tis  not  so  much  worth ;  but,  I  hope,  I  was  perfect. 
I  made  a  little  fault  in  Grreat. 

Biron.    My  hat  to  a  halfpenny,  Pompey  proves  the  best 
worthy. 

Enter  Nathaniel  armed,  for  Alexander. 

Nath.     Wlien  in  the  ivorld  I  lived,  1  was  the  world's  com- 
mander ; 
By  east,  west,  north,  and  south,  I  spread  my  conquering 

might ; 
My  ^scutcheon  plain  declares  that  I  am  Alisander. 

Boyet.    Your  nose  says,  no,  you  are  not;  for  it  stands 

too  right. 
Biron.    Your  nose  smells,  no,  in  this,  most  tender-smell- 
ing knight. 
Prin.    The  conqueror  is  dismayed.     Proceed,  good  Alex- 
ander. 
Nalh.     When  in  the  world  I  lived,  I  toas  the  ivorld's  com- 
mander ;  — 
Boyet.    Most  true ;  'tis  right ;  you  were  so,  Alisander. 

Biron.    Pompey  the  Great, 

Cost.  Your  servant,  and  Costard. 

Biron.  Take  away  the  conqueror ;  take  away  Alisander. 
Cost.  0,  sir,  \_To  Natil]  you  have  overthrown  Alisander 
the  conqueror  !  You  will  be  scraped  out  of  the  painted  cloth 
for  this.  Your  lion,  that  holds  his  poll-axe  sitting  on  a  close- 
stool,  will  be  given  to  A-jax :  he  Avill  be  the  ninth  worthy. 
A  conqueror,  and  afeard  to  speak  !  Run  away  for  shame, 
Alisander.     [Nath.  retires.'\    There,  an't  shall  please  you ; 


504  LOVE'S   LABOR'S    LOST.         [Act  \' 

a  foolish,  mild  man  ;  an  honest  man,  look  you,  and  soon 
dashed  !  He  is  a  marvellous  good  neighbor,  in  sooth  ;  and 
a  very  good  bowler ;  but,  for  Alisander,  alas !  you  see  how 
'tis  I — ;i  little  o'erparted. — But  there  are  worthies  a  coming 
will  speak  their  mind  in  some  other  sort. 
Frin.  Stand  aside,  goodPompey. 

Enter  IIolofernes  armed,  for  Judas,  and  Moth  armed 
for  Hercules. 

Hoi.    Great  Hercules  is  presented  hy  this  imp, 

Whose  club  killed  Cerberus,  that  three-headed  canus. 

And,  ivhen  he  ivas  a  babe,  a  child,  a  shrimp. 
Thus  did  he  strangle  serpents  in  his  manus. 
Quoniam  he  seemeth  in  minority, 
Ergo  /  come  with  this  apology. — 
Keep  some  state  in  thy  exit,  and  vanish.      [Exit  MoTH. 

Hoi.    Judas  I  am, — 

Dum.    A  Judas ! 

Hoi.    Not  Iscariot,  sir. — 
Judas  I  am,  ycleped  Machabseus. 

Dum.    Judas  Machabseus  clipped  is  plain  Judas. 

Biron.    A  kissing  traitor  ! — How  art  thou  proved  Judas  ? 

Hoi.    Judas  I  am, — 

Dum.    The  more  shame  for  you,  Judas. 

Hoi.    What  mean  you,  sir  ? 

Boyet.    To  make  Judas  hang  himself. 

Hoi.    Begin,  sir  ;  you  are  my  elder. 

Biron.    Well  followed.     Judas  was  hanged  on  an  elder  ^ 

Hoi.    I  will  not  be  put  out  of  countenance. 

Biron.    Because  thou  hast  no  face. 

Hoi.    What  is  this? 

Boyet.    A  cittern  head. 

Dum.    The  head  of  a  bodkin. 

Biron.  A  death's  face  in  a  ring. 

Long.    The  face  of  an  old  Roman  coin,  scarce  seen. 

Boyet.    The  pommel  of  Caesar's  falchion. 

Dum.    The  carved-bone  face  on  a  flask. 

Biron.    St.   George's  half-cheek  in  a  brooch. 

Diim.    Ay,  and  in  a  brooch  of  lead. 

Biron.    Ay,  and  worn  in  the  cap  of  a  tooth-drawer. 
And  now,  forward ;  for  we  have  put  thee  in  countenance. 

Hoi.    You  have  put  me  out  of  countenance. 

Biron.    False ;  we  have  given  thee  faces. 

Hoi.    But  you  have  outfaced  them  all. 

Biron.    An  thou  wert  a  lion,  we  would  do  so. 

Boyet.    Therefore,  as  he  is,  an  ass,  let  him  go. 
And  so  adieu,  sweet  Jude !     Nay,  why  dost  thou  stay  ? 


Act  v.]         LOVE'S   LABOR'S    LOST.  505 

Dum.    For  the  latter  end  of  his  name. 

Biron.  For  the  ass  to  the  Jude  ?     Give  it  him : — Jud-as, 

away. 
Sol.    This  is  not  generous,  not  gentle,  not  humble. 
Boyet.    A  light  for  monsieur  Judas.     It  grows  dark ;  he 

may  stumble. 
Prin.    Alas,  poor  Machabseus,  how  hath  he  been  baited ! 

Bnter  Armado  armed,  for  Hector. 

Biron.  Hide  thy  head,  Achilles ;  here  comes  Hector  in 
arms. 

Dum.  Though  my  mocks  come  home  by  me,  I  will  now 
be  merry. 

King.    Hector  was  but  a  Trojan  in  respect  of  this. 

Boyet.    But  is  this  Hector  ? 

Dum.    I  think.  Hector  was  not  so  clean-timbered. 

Long.    His  leg  is  too  big  for  Hector. 

Dum.    More  calf,  certain. 

Boyet.    No ;  he  is  best  indued  in  the  small. 

Biron.    This  cannot  be  Hector. 

Dum.    He's  a  god  or  a  painter ;  for  he  makes  faces. 

Arm.    The  armipotent  3Iars,  of  lances  the  almighty. 
Grave  Hector  a  gift, — 

Dum.    A  gilt  nutmeg. 

Biron.   A  lemon. 

Long.    Stuck  with  cloves. 

Dum.   No,  cloven. 

Arm.    Peace. 
The  armipotent  3Iars,  of  lances  the  almighty, 

Gave  Hector  a  gift,  the  heir  of  Ilion  ; 
A  man  so  breathed,  that  certain  he  would  fight,  yea 

From  morn  till  night,  out  of  his  pavilion. 
I  am  that  flower, — 

Dum.  That  mint. 

Long.  That  columbine. 

Arm.    SAveet  lord  Longaville,  rein  thy  tongue. 

Long.  I  must  rather  give  it  the  rein ;  for  it  runs  against 
Hector. 

Dum.    Ay,  and  Hector's  a  greyhound. 

Arm.  The  sweet  war-man  is  dead  and  rotten ;  sweet 
chucks,  beat  not  the  bones  of  the  buried ;  when  he  breathed, 
he  was  a  man  —  but  I  will  forward  with  my  device.  Sweet 
royalty,  \_To  the  Princess.]  bestow  on  me  the  sense  of 
hearing.  [BiiiON  whispers  CoSTARD. 

Prin.    Speak,  brave  Hector ;  we  are  much  delighted. 

Arm.    I  do  adore  thy  sweet  grace's  slipper. 
2s 


500  LOVE'S   LABOR'S    LOST.         [Act  V 

Boyet.    Loves  her  by  the  foot. 

Dum.    He  may  not  by  the  yard. 

Arm.     Tit  is  Hector  far  surmounted    fTannibal, — 

Cost.  The  party  is  gone,  fellow  Hector ;  she  is  gone ; 
she  is  two  months  on  her  way. 

Arm.    What  meanest  thou  ? 

Cost.  Faith,  unless  you  play  the  honest  Trojan,  the  poor 
wench  is  cast  away.  She's  quick ;  the  child  brags  in  her 
belly  already ;   'tis  yours. 

Arm.  Dost  thou  infamonize  me  among  potentates  ?    Thou 
shalt  die. 

Cost.  Then  shall  Hector  be  whipped,  for  Jaquenetta  that 
is  quick  by  him ;  and  hanged,  for  Pompey  that  is  dead  by 
him. 

Dum.    Most  rare  Pompey ! 

Boyet.    Renowned  Pompey ! 

Biron.  Greater  than  great,  great,  great,  great  Pompey! 
Pompey  the  huge  ! 

Dum.    Hector  trembles. 

Biron.    Pompey  is  moved. — More  Ates,  more  Ates; 
Stir  them  on  !     Stir  them  on  ! 

Dum.    Plector  will  challenge  him 

Biron.  Ay,  if  he  have  no  more  man's  blood  in's  belly 
than  will  sup  a  flea. 

Arm.    By  the  north  pole,  I  do  challenge  thee. 

Cost.  I  will  not  fight  with  a  pole,  like  a  northern  man ; 
I'll  slash ;  I'll  do  it  by  the  sword.  —  I  pray  you,  let  me 
borrow  my  arms  again. 

Dum.    Room  for  the  incensed  worthies. 

Cost.    I'll  do  it  in  my  shirt. 

Dmn.    Most  resolute  Pompey ! 

Moth.  Master,  let  me  take  you  a  buttonhole  lower. 
Do  you  not  see,  Pompey  is  uncasing  for  the  combat? 
What  mean  you?     You  will  lose  your  reputation. 

Arm.  Gentlemen,  and  soldiers,  pardon  me ;  I  will  not 
combat  in  my  shirt. 

Du7n.  You  may  not  deny  it.  Pompey  hath  made  the 
challenge. 

Arm.    Sweet  bloods,  I  both  may  and  will. 

Biron.    What  reason  have  you  for't  ? 

Arm.  The  naked  truth  of  it  is,  I  have  no  shiit;  I  go 
woolward  for  penance. 

Boyet.  True,  and  it  was  enjoined  him  in  Rome  for  want 
of  linen ;  since  when,  I'll  be  sworn,  he  wore  none,  but  a 
dish-clout  of  Jaquenetta's ;  and  that  he  wears  next  his  heart 
for  a  favor 


ActY.]         LOVE'S  LABOR'S   LOST.  507 

Enter  a  Messenger,  Monsieur  Mercade. 

3Ier.    God  save  you,  madam. 

Prill.    Welcome,  Mercade. 
But  that  thou  interrupt'st  our  merriment. 

Mer,    I  am  sorry,  madam  ;  for  the  news  I  bring 
Is  heavy  in  my  tongue.     The  king  your  father  — 

Prin.    Dead,  for  my  life. 

Mer.    Even  so  ;  my  tale  is  told. 

Biron.    Worthies,  away ;  the  scene  begins  to  cloud. 

Arm.  For  mine  own  part,  I  breathe  free  breath.  I  hav6 
seen  the  day  of  wrong  through  the  little  hole  of  discretion, 
and  I  will  right  myself  like  a  soldier.       \_Exeunt  Worthies. 

King.    How  fares  your  majesty  ? 

Prin.    Boyet,  prepare ;  I  will  away  to-night. 

King.    Madam,  not  so ;  I  do  beseech  you,  stay. 

Prin.    Prepare,  I  say.  —  I  thank  you,  gracious  lords, 
For  all  your  fair  endeavors,  and  entreat. 
Out  of  a  new-sad  soul,  that  you  vouchsafe. 
In  your  rich  wisdom,  to  excuse,  or  hide, 
The  liberal  opposition  of  our  spirits. 
If  over-boldly  we  have  borne  ourselves 
In  the  converse  of  breath,  your  gentleness 
Was  guilty  of  it.  —  Farewell,  worthy  lord  ! 
A  heavy  heart  bears  not  a  humble  tongue : 
Excuse  me  so,  coming  so  short  of  thanks 
For  my  great  suit  so  easily  obtained. 

King.    The  extreme  parts  of  time  extremely  form 
All  causes  to  the  purpose  of  his  speed ; 
And  often,  at  his  very  loose,  decides 
That  which  long  process  could  not  arbitrate. 
And  though  the  mourning  brow  of  progeny 
Forbid  the  smiling  courtesy  of  love. 
The  holy  suit  which  fain  it  would  convince ; 
Yet,  since  love's  argument  was  first  on  foot. 
Let  not  the  cloud  of  sorrow  justle  it 
From  what  it  purposed ;  since,  to  wail  friends  lost, 
Is  not  by  much  so  wholesome,  profitable, 
As  to  rejoice  at  friends  but  newly  found. 

Prin.    I  understand  you  not ;  my  griefs  are  double. 

Biron.    Honest,  plain  words  best  pierce  the  ear  of  griof ; 
And  by  these  badges  understand  the  king. 
For  your  fair  sakes  have  we  neglected  time. 
Played  foul  play  with  our  oaths ;  your  beauty,  ladies, 
Hath  much  deformed  us,  fashioning  our  humors 
Even  to  the  opposed  end  of  our  intents ; 


o08  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  [Act  V 

And  what  in  us  hath  seemed  ridiculous, — 

As  love  is  full  of  unbefitting  strains ; 

All  -wanton  as  a  child,  skipping,  and  vain ; 

Formed  by  the  eye,  and  therefore,  like  the  eye, 

Full  of  strange  shapes,  of  habits,  and  of  forms, 

A'^arying  in  subjects  as  the  eye  doth  roll 

To  every  varied  object  in  his  glance ; 

"Which  party-coated  presence  of  loose  love 

Put  on  by  us,  if,  in  your  heavenly  eyes, 

Have  misbecomed  our  oaths  and  gravities. 

Those  heavenly  eyes,  that  look  into  these  faults, 

Suggested  us  to  make.     Therefore,  ladies. 

Our  love  being  yours,  the  error  that  love  makes 

Is  likewise  yours.     We  to  ourselves  prove  false, 

By  being  once  false  forever  to  be  true. 

To  those  that  make  us  both,  —  fair  ladies,  you ; 

And  even  that  falsehood,  in  itself  a  sin, 

Thus  purifies  itself,  and  turns  to  grace. 

Prin.    We  have  received  your  letters,  full  of  love; 
Your  favors,  the  ambassadors  of  love ; 
And,  in  our  maiden  council,  rated  them 
At  courtship,  pleasant  jest,  and  courtesy, 
As  bombast,  and  as  lining  to  the  time. 
But  more  devout  than  this,  in  our  respects. 
Have  we  not  been ;  and  therefore  met  your  loves 
In  their  own  fashion,  like  a  merriment. 

Dum.    Our  letters,  madam,  showed  much  more  than  jest. 

Long.    So  did  our  looks. 

Ros.  We  did  not  quote  them  so. 

King.    Now,  at  the  latest  minute  of  the  hour. 
Grant  us  your  loves. 

Prin.  A  time  methinks  too  short 

To  make  a  world-without-end  bargain  in. 
No,  no,  my  lord,  your  grace  is  perjured  much, 
Full  of  dear  guiltiness ;  and,  therefore  this, — 
If  for  my  love  (as  there  is  no  such  cause) 
You  will  do  aught,  this  shall  you  do  for  me. 
Your  oath  I  will  not  trust ;  but  go  with  speed 
To  some  forlorn  and  naked  hermitage. 
Remote  from  all  the  pleasures  of  the  world; 
There  stay,  until  the  tAvelve  celestial  signs 
Have  brought  about  their  annual  reckoning. 
If  this  austere,  insociable  life 
Change  not  your  offer  made  in  heat  of  blood; 
If  frosts,  and  fasts,  hard  lodging,  and  thin  weeds, 
Nip  not  the  gaudy  blossoms  of  your  Icve, 


ActY.J         LOVE'S    LABOR'S    LOST.  50S 

But  that  it  bear  this  trial,  and  last  love ; 

Then,  at  the  expiration  of  the  year, 

Come  challenge,  challenge  me  by  these  deserts. 

And,  by  this  virgin  palm,  now  kissing  thine, 

I  will  be  thine  ;  and,  till  that  instant,  shut 

My  woful  self  up  in  a  mourning  house; 

Raining  the  tears  of  lamentation. 

For  the  remembrance  of  my  father's  death. 

If  this  thou  do  deny,  let  our  hands  part; 

Neither  entitled  in  the  other's  heart. 

King.  If  this,  or  more  than  this,  I  would  deny, 
To  flatter  up  these  powers  of  mine  with  rest, 
The  sudden  hand  of  death  close  up  mine  eye ! 
Hence  ever,  then,  my  heart  is  in  thy  breast. 

Biron.    And  what  to  me,  my  love  ?  and  what  to  me  ? 

Ros.    You  must  be  purged  too;  your  sins  are  rank; 
You  are  attaint  with  faults  and  perjury ; 
Therefore,  if  you  my  favor  mean  to  get, 
A  twelvemonth  shall  you  spend,  and  never  rest. 
But  seek  the  weary  beds  of  people  sick. 

Dum.    But  what  to  me,  my  love  ?  but  what  to  me  ? 

Kath.    A  wife  !  —  A  beard,  fair  health,  and  honesty ; 
With  threefold  love  I  wish  you  all  these  three. 

Dum.    0,  shall  I  say,  I  thank  you,  gentle  wife  ? 

Kath.    Not  so,  my  lord. — A  twelvemonth  and  a  day 
I'll  mark  no  words  that  smooth-faced  wooers  say. 
Come  when  the  king  doth  to  my  lady  come ; 
Then,  if  I  have  much  love,  I'll  give  you  some. 

Dum.    I'll  serve  thee  true  and  faithfully  till  then. 

Kath.    Yet  swear  not,  lest  you  be  forsworn  again. 

Long.    What  says  Maria  ? 

Mar.  At  the  twelvemonth's  end, 

I'll  change  my  black  gown  for  a  faithful  friend. 

Long.    I'll  stay  with  patience ;  but  the  time  is  long. 

Mar.    The  liker  you ;  few  taller  are  so  young. 

Biron.    Studies  my  lady  ?     Mistress,  look  on  me ; 
Behold  the  window  of  my  heart,  mine  eye. 
What  humble  suit  attends  thy  answer  there. 
Impose  some  service  on  me  for  thy  love. 

Hos.    Oft  have  I  heard  of  you,  my  lord  Biron, 
Before  I  saw  you;  and  the  world's  large  tongu3 
Proclaims  you  for  a  man  replete  with  mocks ; 
Full  of  comparisons  and  wounding  flouts ; 
2s* 


510  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOfeT.  [Aci  V 

Which  you  on  all  estates  -will  execute, 

That  lie  -within  the  mercy  of  your  wit. 

To  weed  this  wormwood  from  your  fruitful  brain, 

And,  therewithal,  to  win  me,  if  you  please, 

(Without  the  which  I  am  not  to  he  won,) 

You  shall  this  twelvemonth  term  from  day  to  day 

Visit  tlie  speechless  sick,  and  still  converse 

With  groaning  wretches ;  and  your  task  shall  he. 

With  all  the  fierce  endeavor  of  your  wit. 

To  enforce  the  pained  impotent  to  smile. 

Biron.    To  move  wild  laughter  in  the  throat  of  death  1 
It  cannot  be ;  it  is  impossible. 
Mirth  cannot  move  a  soul  in  agony. 

Ros.    Why,  that's  the  way  to  choke  a  gibing  spirit, 
Whose  influence  is  begot  of  that  loose  grace, 
Which  shallow,  laughing  hearers  give  to  fools. 
A  jest's  prosperity  lies  in  the  ear 
Of  him  that  hears  it,  never  in  the  tongue 
Of  him  that  makes  it.     Then,  if  sickly  ears, 
Deafed  with  the  clamors  of  their  own  dear  groans, 
Will  hear  your  idle  scorns,  continue  then, 
And  I  will  have  you,  and  that  fault  withal ; 
But,  if  they  will  not,  throw  away  that  spirit, 
And  I  shall  find  you  empty  of  that  fault. 
Right  joyful  of  your  reformation. 

Biro7i.    A  twelvemonth  ?     Well,  befall  what  will  befall, 
I'll  jest  a  twelvemonth  in  an  hospital. 

Prin.    Ay,  sweet  my  lord;  and  so  I  take  my  leave. 

ITo  the  King. 

King.    No,  madam  ;  we  will  bring  you  on  your  way. 

Biron.    Our  wooing  doth  not  end  like  an  old  play; 
Jack  hath  not  Jill :  these  ladies'  courtesy 
Might  well  have  made  our  sport  a  comedy. 

King.    Come,  sir,  it  wants  a  twelvemonth  and  a  day. 
And  then  'tAvill  end. 

Biron.  That's  too  long  for  a  play. 

Enter  Armado. 

Arm.    Sweet  majesty,  vouchsafe  me, — 

Prin.    Was  not  that  Hector  ? 

Bum.    The  worthy  knight  of  Troy. 

Arm.  I  will  kiss  thy  royal  finger  and  take  leave.  I  am 
a  votary ;  I  have  vowed  to  Jaquenetta  to  hold  the  plough 
for  her  sweet  love  three  years.     But,  most  esteemed  great- 


Act  V.J  LOVE'S    LABOK'S    LOST.  511 

ness,  will  you  hear  the  dialogue  that  the  two  learned  men 
have  compiled,  in  pi-aise  of  the  owl  and  the  cuckoo  ?  it  should 
have  followed  in  the  end  of  our  show. 

King.    Call  them  forth  quickly;  we  will  do  ;J0 

Arm.   Holla !     Approach. 

Enter  Holofernes,  Nathaniel,  Moth,  Costard,  and 
others. 

This  side  is  Hiems,  winter ;  this  Ver,  the  spring ;  the  one 
maintained  by  the  owl,  the  other  by  the  cuckoo.  Ver,  begin. 

SONG. 


Spring.    WTien  daisies  pied,  and  violets  'blue, 
And  lady-smocks  all  silver  white, 
And  cuckoo-buds  of  yelloiv  hue, 

Do  paint  the  meadows  tvith  delight. 
The  cuckoo,  then,  on  every  tree,  , 
Mocks  married  men ;  for  thus  sings  he, 

Ouckoo  ; 
Cuckoo,  cuckoo,  —  0  word  of  fear, ' 
Unpleasing  to  a  married  ear! 

II. 

When  shepherds  pipe  on  oaten  straios. 

And  merry  larks  are  ploughmen's  clocks. 
When  turtles  tread,  and  rooks,  and  daivs, 

And  maidens  bleach  their  summer  smocks^ 
The  cuckoo,  then,  on  every  tree. 
Mocks  married  men  ;  for  thus  sings  he^ 

Cuckoo; 
Cuckoo,  cuckoo,  —  0  word  of  fear, 
Unpleasing  to  a  married  ear! 

III. 

Winter.    When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall. 

And  Dick  the  shepherd  blotvs  his  nail, 
And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall. 

And  milk  comes  frozen  liomc  in  pail, 
IVlien  blond  is  nipped,  and  tvays  befoul, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  oivl, 

To-who  ; 
To-u'hit,  to-tvho,  a  merry  note, 
Wldle  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 


512  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.         JTAot  V 

IV. 

W7ien  all  aloud  the  wind  doth  blow, 
And  coughing  droivns  the  parson's  saWy 

And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow, 
And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and  raw^ 

When  roasted  crabs  hiss  in  the  bowl, 

Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 
To-who  ; 

To-whit,  to-tvho,  a  merry  note. 

While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

Arm.   The  words  of  Mercury  are  harsh  after  the  songs 
of  Apollo-    You,  that  way ;  we,  this  way,  [JSxeunt 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


Vol.  I.— 33  613 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

Duke  of  Venice. 

Prince  of  Morocco,  )   ^   •  -r. 

Prince  of  Arragon,  |  '^"'^'''"^  ''^  P^^tia- 

Antonio,  the  Merchant  of  Venice. 

Bass  AN  10,  Us  Friend. 

Salanio,     ~\ 

Salarino,   V  Friends  to  Antonio  and  Bassaaio. 

Gratiano,  3 

Lorenzo,  in  love  with  Jessica. 

Shylock,  a  Jew. 

Tubal,  a  Jew,  his  Friend. 

Launcelot  Gobbo,  a  Clown,  Servant  to  Shylock. 

Old  Gobbo,  Father  to  Launcelot. 

Salerio,  a  Messenger  from  Vence 

Leonardo,   Servant  to  Bassanio. 

Balthazar,  )  „  .^ 

Stephano,     }  Servants  to  Portia. 

Portia,  a  rich  Heiress. 
Nerissa,  her  Waiting-maid. 
Jessica,  Daughter  to  Slijlock. 

Magnifcoes  of  Venice,  Officers  of  the  Court  of  Justice, 
Jailer,  Servants,  and  other  Attendants. 

SCENE,  partly  at  Venice,  and  partly  at  Belmont,  the 
Seat  of  Portia,  on  the  Continent. 


(514) 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

ACT   I. 

SCENE  I.     Venice.     A  Street. 
Enter  Antonio,  Salarino,  and  Salanio. 

Ant.    In  sooth,  I  know  not  why  I  am  so  sad. 
It  wearies  me ;  you  say,  it  wearies  you ; 
But  how  I  caught  it,  found  it,  or  came  by  it, 
What  stuff  'tis  made  of,  whereof  it  is  born, 
I  am  to  learn ; 

And  such  a  want-wit  sadness  makes  of  me, 
That  I  have  much  ado  to  know  myself. 

Solar.    Your  mind  is  tossing  on  the  ocean ; 
There,  where  your  argosies,  with  portly  sail, — 
Like  seigniors  and  rich  burghers,  on  the  flood, 
Or,  as  it  were,  the  pageants  of  the  sea, — 
Do  overpeer  the  petty  traffickers, 
That  court'sy  to  them,  do  them  reverence. 
As  they  fly  by  them  with  their  woven  wings. 

Solan.    Believe  me,  sir,  had  I  such  venture  forth. 
The  better  part  of  my  affections  would 
Be  with  my  hopes  abroad.     I  should  be  still 
Plucking  the  grass,  to  know  where  sits  the  wind; 
Peering  in  maps,  for  ports,  and  piers,  and  roads; 
And  every  object  that  might  make  me  fear 
Misfortune  to  my  ventures,  out  of  doubt. 
Would  make  me  sad. 

Salor.  My  wind,  cooling  my  broth, 

Would  blow  me  to  an  ague,  when  I  thought 
What  harm  a  wind  too  great  might  do  at  sea. 
I  should  not  see  the   sandy  hour-glass  run. 
But  I  should  think  of  shallows  and  of  flats, 
And  see  my  wealthy  Andrew  docked  in  sand, 
Vailing  her  high-top  lower  than  her  ribs, 

(SIS') 


516  MERCHANT   OF    VENICE.  [Act  I 

To  kiss  licr  burial.      Should  I  go  to  church, 

And  see  the  holy  edifice  of  stone, 

And  not  bethink  me  straight  of  dangerous  rocka, 

"Which,  touching  but  my  gentle  vessel's  side, 

Would  scatter  all  her  spices  on  the  stream. 

Enrobe  the  roaring  waters  with  my  silks, 

And,  in  a  word,  but  even  now  worth  this, 

And  now  worth  nothing  ?     Shall  I  have  the  thought 

To  think  on  this ;  and  shall  I  lack  the  thought, 

That  such  a  thing,  bechanced,  would  make  me  sad? 

But  tell  not  me;  I  know  Antonio 

Is  sad  to  think  upon  his  merchandise. 

Ant.    Believe  me,  no.     I  thank  my  fortune  for  it, 
My  ventures  are  not  in  one  bottom  trusted, 
Nor  to  one  place ;  nor  is  my  whole  estate 
Upon  the  fortune  of  this  present  year ; 
Therefore  my  merchandise  makes  me  not  sad. 

Solan.    Why,  then,  you  are  in  love. 

Ant.  Fie,  fie! 

Salan.  Not  in  love  neither  ?    Then  let's  say,  you  are  sad, 
Because  you  are  not  merry ;  and  'twere  as  easy 
For  you  to  laugh,  and  leap,  and  say,  you  are  merry, 
Because  you  are  not  sad.     Now,  by  two-headed  Janus, 
Nature  hath  framed  strange  fellows  in  her  time ; 
Some  that  will  evermore  peep  through  their  eyes. 
And  laugh,  like  parrots,  at  a  bag-piper ; 
And  other  of  such  vinegar  aspect. 
That  they'll  not  show  their  teeth  in  way  of  smile, 
Though  Nestor  swear  the  j^st  be  laughable.  f\A 

Enter  Bassanio,  Lobjin^,  and  Grattano. 

Salan.    Here  comes  Bassanio,  your  most  noble  kinsman, 
Gratiano,  and  Lorenzo.     Fare  you  well ; 
We  leave  you  now  with  better  company. 

Salar.    I  would  have  staid  till  I  had  made  you  merry, 
If  worthier  friends  had  not  prevented  me. 

Ant.   Your  worth  is  very  dear  in  my  regard. 
I  take  it,  your  own  business  calls  on  you. 
And  you  embrace  the  occasion  to  depart. 

Salar.    Good  morrow,  my  good  lords. 

Bass.   Good  seigniors  both,  when  shall  we  laugh  ?     Say, 
when  ? 
You  grow  exceeding  strange.     Must  it  be  so? 

Salar.  We'll  make  our  leisures  to  attend  on  yours. 

[Exeunt  Salar.  and  Salan. 

Lor.    My  lord  Bassanio,  since  you  have  found  Antonio, 


ActL]  merchant    of    VENICE.  517 

We  two  will  leave  you;  but  at  dinner-time, 

I  pray  you,  have  in  mind  where  we  must  meet. 

Bass.    I  will  not  fail  you. 

G-ra.    You  look  not  well,  seignior  Antonio. 
You  have  too  much  respect  upon  the  world. 
They  lose  it,  that  do  buy  it  with  much  care. 
Believe  me,  you  are  marvellously  changed. 

Ant.    I  hold  the  world  but  as  the  world,  Gratiano; 
A  stage,  where  every  man  must  play  a  part, 
And  mine  a  sad  one. 

Gra.  Let  me  play  the  fool. 

With  mirth  and  laughter  let  old  wrinkles  come; 
And  let  my  liver  rather  heat  with  wine, 
Than  my  heart  cool  with  mortifying  groans. 
Why  should  a  man,  Avhose  blood  is  warm  within, 
Sit  like  his  grandsire  cut  in  alabaster  ? 
Sleep  when  he  wakes,  and  creep  into  the  jaundice 
By  being  peevish  ?     I  tell  thee  what,  Antonio, — 
I  love  thee,  and  it  is  my  love  that  speaks, — 
There  are  a  sort  of  men  whose  visages 
Do  cream  and  mantle,  like  a  standing  pond; 
And  do  a  wilful  stillness  entertain, 
With  purpose  to  be  dressed  in  an  opinion 
Of  wisdom,  gravity,  profound  conceit ; 
As  who  should  say,  /  am  sir  Oracle, 
And  when  I  ope  my  lips,  let  no  dog  hark ! 
0,  my  Antonio,  I  do  know  of  these. 
That  therefore  only  are  reputed  wise, 
For  saying  nothing ;  who,  I  am  very  sure. 
If  they  should  speak,  would  almost  damn  those  ears, 
Which,  hearing  them,  would  call  their  brothers  foola. 
I'll  tell  thee  more  of  this  another  time ; 
But  fish  not,  with  this  melancholy  bait. 
For  this  fool's  gudgeon,  this  opinion. — 
Come,  good  Lorenzo, — Fare  ye  well,  awhile ; 
I'll  end  my  exhortation  after  dinner. 

Lor.    Well,  we  will  leave  you  then  till  dinner-time. 
I  must  be  one  of  these  same  dumb  wise  men. 
For  Gratiano  never  lets  me  speak. 

Gra.    Well,  keep  me  company  but  two  years  more, 
Thou  shalt  not  know  the  sound  of  thine  own  tongue. 

Ant.    Farewell.     I'll  grow  a  talker  for  this  gear. 

Gra.    Thanks,  i'faith  ;  for  silence  is  only  commendable 
In  a  neat's  tongue  dried,  and  a  maid  not  vendible. 

[^Exeunt  Gka.  and  Lor. 

Ant.    Is  that  anything  now  ? 

2t 


518  MERCHANT    OF   VENICE.  [Act  I 

Bass.  Gratiano  speaks  an  infinite  deal  of  nothing;  more 
than  an}^  man  in  all  Venice,  His  reasons  arc  as  two  grains 
of  ■wheat  hid  in  two  bushels  of  chaff;  you  shall  seek  all 
day  ere  you  find  them ;  and,  when  you  have  them,  they  are 
not  worth  the  search. 

Ant.    Well ;  tell  me  now,  what  lady  is  this  same 
To  whom  you  swore  a  secret  pilgrimage. 
That  you  to-day  promised  to  tell  me  of? 

Bass.    'Tis  not  unknown  to  you,  Antonio, 
How  much  I  have  disabled  mine  estate. 
By  sometliing  showing  a  more  swelling  port 
Than  my  faint  means  would  grant  continuance. 
Nor  do  I  now  make  moan  to  be  abridged 
From  such  a  noble  rate ;  but  my  chief  care 
Is,  to  come  fairly  off  from  the  great  debts, 
Wherein  my  time,  something  too  prodigal, 
Hath  left  me  gaged.     To  you,  Antonio, 
I  owe  the  most  in  money,  and  in  love ; 
And  from  your  love  I  have  a  warranty 
To  unburden  all  my  plots,  and  purposes, 
How  to  get  clear  of  all  the  debts  I  owe. 

Aiit.    I  pray  you,  good  Bassanio,  let  me  know  it; 
And,  if  it  stand,  as  you  yourself  still  do, 
Within  the  eye  of  honor,  be  assured. 
My  purse,  my  person,  my  extremest  means. 
Lie  all  unlocked  to  your  occasions. 

Bass.    In  my  school-days,  when  I  had  lost  one  shatt, 
I  shot  his  fellow  of  the  self-same  flight 
The  self-same  way,  with  more  advised  watch. 
To  find  the  other  forth ;  and,  by  adventuring  both, 
I  oft  found  both ;  I  urge  this  childhood  proof. 
Because  what  follows  is  pure  innocence. 
I  owe  you  much ;  and,  like  a  wilful  youth. 
That  which  I  owe  is  lost ;  but  if  you  please 
To  shoot  another  arrow  that  self  way 
Which  you  did  shoot  the  first,  I  do  not  doubt, 
As  I  will  watch  the  aim,  or  to  find  both. 
Or  bring  your  latter  hazard  back  again. 
And  thankfully  rest  debtor  for  the  first. 

Ant.    You  know  me  well ;  and  herein  spend  but  time, 
To  wind  about  my  love  with  circumstance : 
And,  out  of  doubt,  you  do  me  now  more  wrong, 
In  making  question  of  my  uttermost. 
Than  if  you  had  made  waste  of  all  I  have 
Then  do  but  say  to  me  what  I  should  do, 


ActI:J  merchant   of   VENICE.  519 

That  in  your  knowledge  may  by  me  be  done, 
And  I  am  prest  unto  it ;  therefore,  speak. 
Bass.    In  Belmont  is  a  lady  richly  left, 
And  she  is  fair,  and  fairer  than  that  word, 
Of  wondrous  virtues.     Sometimes  from  her  eyes 
I  did  receive  fair  speechless  messages. 
Her  name  is  Portia ;  nothing  undervalued 
To  Cato's  daughter,  Brutus'  Portia. 
Nor  is  the  wide  world  ignorant  of  her  worth : 
For  the  four  winds  blow  in  from  every  coast 
Renowned  suitors ;  and  her  sunny  locks 
Hang  on  her  temples  like  a  golden  fleece ; 
Which  makes  her  seat  of  Belmont,   Colchos'  strand, 
And  many  Jasons  come  in  quest  of  her. 

0  my  Antonio,  had  I  but  the  means 
To  hold  a  rival  place  with  one  of  them, 

1  have  a  mind  presages  me  such  thrift, 
That  I  should  questionless  be  fortunate. 

Ant.    Thou  know'st,  that  all  my  fortunes  are  at  sea ; 
Neither  have  I  money,  nor  commodity 
To  raise  a  present  sum.     Therefore  go  forth. 
Try  what  my  credit  can  in  Venice  do ; 
That  shall  be  racked,  even  to  the  uttermost, 
To  furnish  thee  to  Belmont,  to  fair  Portia. 
Go,  presently  inquire,  and  so  will  I, 
Where  money  is  ;  and  I  no  question  make. 
To  have  it  of  my  trust,  or  for  my  sake.  \^E7:eunt 

SCENE  II.     Belmont.     A  Boom  in  Portia's  House. 
Enter  Portia  and  Nerissa. 

Par.  By  my  troth,  Nerissa,  my  little  body  is  aweary  of 
this  great  world. 

Ner.  You  would  be,  sweet  madam,  if  your  miseries  were 
in  the  same  abundance  as  your  good  fortunes  are ;  and  yet, 
for  aught  I  see,  they  are  as  sick,  that  surfeit  with  too  much, 
as  they  that  starve  with  nothing.  It  is  no  mean  happiness, 
therefore,  to  be  seated  in  the  mean  ;  superfluity  comes  sooner 
by  white  hairs,  but  competency  lives  longer. 

JPor.    Good  sentences,  and  well  pronounced. 

Ner.    They  would  be  better  if  well  folloAved. 

Por.  If  to  do,  were  as  easy  as  to  know  what  were  good 
to  do,  chapels  had  been  churches,  and  poor  men's  cottages 
prince's  palaces.  It  is  a  good  divine  that  follows  his  ow^n 
instructions.     I  can  easier  teach  twenty  what  were  good  to 


520  MEKCIIANT    OF    VENICE.  [Act  I 

be  done,  tluiu  be  one  of  the  twenty  to  follow  mine  o^Yn  teach 
iu'T.  The  brain  may  devise  laws  for  the  blood;  but  a  hot 
temper  leaps  over  a  cold  degree ;  such  a  hare  is  madness  the 
youth,  to  skip  o'er  the  meshes  of  good  counsel  the  cripple. 
But  this  reasoning  is  not  in  the  fashion  to  choose  me  a  hus- 
band.— 0  me,  the  word  choose  !  I  may  neither  choose  whom 
I  would,  nor  refuse  Avhom  I  dislike :  so  is  the  will  of  a  living 
daughter  curbed  by  the  will  of  a  dead  father.  Is  it  not  hard, 
Nerissa,  that  I  cannot  choose  one,  nor  refuse  none  ? 

Ner.  Your  father  was  ever  virtuous ;  and  holy  men,  at 
their  death,  have  good  inspirations ;  therefore,  the  lottery, 
that  he  hath  devised  in  these  three  chests,  of  gold,  silver, 
and  lead,  (whereof  who  chooses  his  meaning,  chooses  you,) 
will,  no  doubt,  never  be  chosen  by  any  rightly,  but  one  who 
you  shall  rightly  love.  But  what  warmth  is  there  in  your 
affection  towards  any  of  these  princely  suitors  that  are 
already  come  ? 

Por.  I  pray  thee,  over-name  them ;  and  as  thou  namest 
them,  I  will  describe  them  ;  and  according  to  my  description, 
level  at  my  affection. 

Ner.    First,  there  is  the  Neapolitan  prince 

Por.  Ay,  that's  a  colt,  indeed,  for  he  doth  nothing  but 
talk  of  his  horse ;  and  he  makes  it  a  great  appropriation  to 
his  own  good  parts,  that  he  can  shoe  him  himself.  I  am 
much  afraid  my  lady  his  mother  played  false  with  a  smith. 

Ner.    Then,  is  there  the  county  palatine. 

Por.  He  doth  nothing  but  frown  ;  as  who  should  say,  An 
if  you  will  not  have  me,  choose.  He  hears  merry  tales,  and 
smiles  not ;  I  fear  he  will  prove  the  weeping  philosopher 
when  he  grows  old,  being  so  full  of  unmannerly  sadness  in 
his  youth.  I  had  rather  be  married  to  a  death's  head  with 
a  bone  in  his  mouth,  than  to  either  of  these.  God  defend 
mc  from  these  two ! 

Ner.    HoAV  say  you  by  the  French  lord,  monsieur  Le  Bon  ? 

Por.  God  made  him,  and  therefore  let  him  pass  for  a 
man.  In  truth,  I  know  it  is  a  sin  to  be  a  mocker ;  but,  he  ! 
why,  he  hath  a  horse  better  than  the  Neapolitans ;  a  better 
bad  habit  of  frowning  than  the  count  palatine ;  he  is  every 
man  in  no  man ;  if  a  throstle  sing,  he  falls  straight  a  caper- 
ing ;  he  will  fence  with  his  own  shadow.  If  I  should  marry 
him,  I  should  marry  twenty  husbands ;  if  he  would  despise 
me,  I  would  forgive  him ;  for  if  he  love  me  to  madness,  I 
Bhall  never  requite  him. 

Ner.  What  say  you  then  to  Faulconbridge,  the  young 
baron  of  England  ? 

Por.    You  know,  I  say  nothing  to  him ;  for  he  under- 


Atjrl]  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE  521 

stands  not  me,  nor  I  him  ;  he  hath  neither  Latin,  French, 
nor  Italian  ;  and  you  will  come  into  the  court  and  swear, 
that  I  have  a  poor  pennyworth  in  the  English.  He  is  a 
proper  man's  picture ;  but,  alas  !  who  can  converse  with  a 
dumb  show  ?  how  oddly  he  is  suited !  I  think,  he  bought  his 
doublet  in  Italy,  his  round  hose  in  France,  his  bonnet  in 
Germany,  and  his  behaviour  every  where. 

Ner.    What  think  you  of  the  Scottish  lord,  his  neighbor  ? 

Por.  That  he  hath  a  neighborly  charity  in  him  ;  for  he 
borrowed  a  box  of  the  ear  of  the  Englishman,  and  swore  he 
would  pay  him  again,  when  he  was  able.  I  think  the 
Frenchman  became  his  surety,  and  sealed  under  for  another. 

Ner.  How  like  you  the  young  German,  the  duke  of 
Saxony's  nephew  ? 

Por.  Very  vilely  in  the  morning,  when  he  is  sober ;  an-d 
most  vilely  in  the  afternoon,  when  he  is  drunk.  When  he 
is  best,  he  is  little  worse  than  a  man ;  and  when  he  is  worst, 
he  is  little  better  than  a  beast ;  and  the  worst  fall  that  ever 
fell,  I  hope,  I  shall  make  shift  to  go  without  him. 

Ner.  If  he  should  offer  to  choose,  and  choose  the  right 
casket,  you  should  refuse  to  perform  your  father's  will,  if 
you  should  refuse  to  accept  him. 

Por.  Therefore,  for  fear  of  the  worst,  I  pray  thee,  set  a 
deep  glass  of  Rhenish  wine  on  the  contrary  casket ;  for,  if 
the  devil  be  within,  and  that  temptation  without,  I  know  he 
will  choose  it.  I  will  do  any  thing,  Nerissa,  ere  I  will  be 
married  to  a  sponge. 

Ner.  You  need  not  fear,  lady,  the  having  any  of  these 
lords.  They  have  acquainted  me  with  their  determination ; 
which  is,  indeed,  to  return  to  their  home,  and  to  trouble  you 
with  no  more  suit :  unless  you  may  be  won  by  some  other 
sort  than  your  father's  imposition,  depending  on  the  caskets. 

Por.  If  I  live  to  be  as  old  as  Sibylla,  I  will  die  as  chaste 
as  Diana,  unless  I  be  obtained  by  the  manner  of  my  father's 
will.  I  am  glad  this  parcel  of  wooers  are  so  reasonable ; 
for  there  is  not  one  among  them  but  I  dote  on  his  very  ab- 
sence, and  I  pray  God  grant  them  a  fair  departure. 

Ner.  Do  you  not  remember,  lady,  in  your  father's  time, 
a  Venetian,  a  scholar,  and  a  soldier,  that  came  hither  in 
company  of  the  marquis  of  Montfcrrat  ? 

Por.  Yes,  yes,  it  was  Bassanio ;  as  I  think,  so  was  he 
called. 

Ner.  True,  madam;  he,  of  all  the  men  that  ever  my 
foolish  eyes  looked  upon,  was  the  best  deserving  a  fair  lady. 

Por.  I  remember  him  well ;  and  I  remember  him  wcu-thy 
of  thy  praise.  —  How  now  !  What  news  ? 

2t* 


522  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  [Act  1 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  The  four  strangers  seek  for  you,  madam,  to  tako 
their  leave,  and  there  is  a  forerunner  come  from  a  fifth,  the 
prince  of  Morocco ;  who  brings  word,  the  prince,  his  mas- 
ter, will  be  here  to-night. 

For.  If  I  could  bid  the  fifth  welcome  with  so  good  heart 
as  I  can  bid  the  other  four  farewell,  I  should  be  glad  of  his 
approach  ;  if  he  have  the  condition  of  a  saint,  and  the  com- 
plexion of  a  devil,  I  had  rather  he  should  shrive  me  than 
wive  me.  Come,  Nerissa. —  Sirrah,  go  before. — Whiles  we 
shut  the  gate  upon  one  wooer,  another  knocks  at  the  door. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.     Venice.     A  public  Place. 
Enter  Bassanio  and  Shylock. 

Shy.    Three  thousand  ducats, — well. 

Bass.    Ay,  sir,  for  three  months. 

Sky.    For  three  months, — well. 

Bass.  For  the  which,  as  I  told  you,  Antonio  shall  be  bound. 

Shy.    Antonio  shall  become  bound, — well. 

Bass.  May  you  stead  me?  Will  you  pleasure  me? 
Shall  I  know  your  answer  ? 

Shy. .  Three  thousand  ducats,  for  three  months,  and 
Antonio  bound. 

Bass.    Your  answer  to  that. 

Shy.    Antonio  is  a  good  man. 

Bass.    Have  you  heard  any  imputation  to  the  contrary  ? 

Shy.  Ho,  no,  no,  no,  no ;  —  my  meaning,  in  saying  he 
is  a  good  man,  is  to  have  you  understand  me,  that  he  is  suflS- 
cient.  Yet  his  means  are  in  supposition  :  he  hath  an  argosy 
bound  to  Tripolis,  another  to  the  Indies;  I  understand, 
moreover,  upon  the  Kialto,  he  hath  a  third  at  Mexico,  a 
fourth  for  England, and  other  ventures  he  hath,  squan- 
dered abroad.  But  ships  are  but  boards,  sailors  but  men ; 
there  be  land-rats,  and  water-rats,  water-thieves,  and  land- 
thieves  ;  I  mean,  pirates ;  and  then,  there  is  the  peril  of 
waters,  winds,  and  rocks.  The  man  is,  notwithstanding, 
sufficient;  —  three  thousand  ducats ;— I  think  I  may  take 
his  bond. 

Bass.    Be  assured  you  may. 

Shy.  I  will  be  assured  I  may  ;  and  that  I  may  be  assured, 
I  will  bethink  me.     May  I  speak  with  Antonio  ? 

Bass.    If  it  please  you  to  dine  with  us. 

Shy     Yes,  to  smell  pork ;  to  eat  of  the  habitation  which 


A-otL]  merchant    of   VENICE.  523 

your  prophet  the  Nazarite,  conjured  the  devil  into.  I  will 
buy  with  you,  sell  with  you,  talk  with  you,  walk  with  you, 
and  so  following ;  but  I  will  not  eat  with  you,  drink  with 
you,  nor  pray  with  you.  What  news  on  the  Rialto  ? — Who 
is  he  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Antonio. 

Bass.    This  is  seignior  Antonio. 

Shy.  [Aside.']  How  like  a  fawning  publican  he  looks '. 
I  hate  him,  for  he  is  a  Christian. 
But  more,  for  that,  in  low  simplicity. 
He  lends  out  money  gratis,  and  brings  down 
The  rate  of  usance  here  with  us  in  Venice. 
If  I  can  catch  him  once  upon  the  hip, 
I  will  feed  fat  the  ancient  grudge  I  bear  him. 
He  hates  our  sacred  nation ;  and  he  rails, 
Even  there  where  merchants  most  do  congregate, 
On  me,  my  bargains,  and  my  well-won  thrift. 
Which  he  calls  interest.     Cursed  be  my  tribe, 
If  I  forgive  him. 

Bass.  Shylock,  do  you  hear? 

Shy.    I  am  debating  of  my  present  store; 
And,  by  the  near  guess  of  my  memory, 
I  cannot  instantly  raise  up  the  gross 
Of  full  three  thousand  ducats.     What  of  that? 
Tubal,  a  wealthy  Hebrew  of  my  tribe, 
Will  furnish  me.     But  soft;  how  many  months 
Do  you  desire?  —  rest  you  fair,  good  seignior; 

[To  Antonio, 
Your  worship  was  the  last  man  in  our  mouths. 

Ant.    Shylock,  albeit  I  neither  lend  nor  borrow, 
By  taking,  nor  by  giving  of  excess. 
Yet,  to  supply  the  ripe  wants  of  my  friend, 
I'll  break  a  custom. — Is  he  yet  possessed. 
How  much  you  would? 

Shy.  Ay,  ay,  three  thousand  ducats. 

Ant.    And  for  three  months. 

Shy.    I  had  forgot,  —  three  months,  you  told  me  so. 

Well  then,  your  bond;  and,  let  me  see, but  hear  you; 

Methought  you  said,  you  neither  lend  nor  borrow 
Upon  advantage. 

Ant.  I  do  never  use  it. 

Shy.    When  Jacob  grazed  his  uncle  Laban'e  sheep, 
This  Jacob  from  our  holy  Abraham  was 
(As  his  wise  mother  wrought  in  his  behalf,) 
The  third  possessor ;  ay,  he  was  the  third. 


524  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  [Act  I 

Ant.    And  ^vhat  of  liirn  ?     Did  he  take  interest  ? 

S?i^.    No,  not  take  interest;  not,  as  you  would  say, 
Directly  interest.     Mark  what  Jacob  did. 
When  Laban  and  himself  were  compromised, 
That  all  the  eanlings  which  were  streaked,  and  pied. 
Should  fall  as  Jacob's  hire ;  the  ewes,  being  rank, 
In  the  end  of  autumn  turned  to  the  rams ; 
And  when  the  work  of  generation  was 
Between  these  woolly  breeders  in  the  act, 
The  skilful  shepherd  peeled  me  certain  wands, 
And  in  the  doing  of  the  deed  of  kind, 
He  stuck  them  up  before  the  fulsome  ewes ; 
"Who,  then  conceiving,  did  in  eaning  time 
Fall  party-colored  lambs,  and  those  were  Jacob's. 
This  was  a  way  to  thrive,  and  he  was  blessed ; 
And  thrift  is  blessing,  if  men  steal  it  not. 

Ant.    This  was  a  venture,  sir,  that  Jacob  served  for ; 
A  thing  not  in  his  power  to  bring  to  pass. 
But  swayed,  and  fashioned,  by  the  hand  of  Heaven. 
Was  this  inserted  to  make  interest  good? 
Or  is  your  gold  and  silver,  ewes  and  rams? 

/Shi/.    I  cannot  tell ;  I  make  it  breed  as  fast. 
But  note  me,  seignior. 

Ant.  Mark  you  this,  Bassanio; 

The  devil  can  cite  scripture  for  his  purpose. 
An  evil  soul,  producing  holy  witness. 
Is  like  a  villain  with  a  smiling  cheek ; 
A  goodly  apple  rotten  at  the  heart. 
0,  what  a  goodly  outside  falsehood  hath  ! 

Shi/.    Three  thousand  ducats,  —  'tis  a  good  round  sum. 
Three  months  from  twelve,  then  let  me  see  the  rate. 

Ant.    Well,  Shylock,  shall  we  be  beholden  to  you? 

Shi/.    Seignior  Antonio,  many  a  time  and  oft, 
In  the  Rialto,  you  have  rated  me, 
About  my  moneys,  and  my  usances. 
Still  have  I  borne  it  with  a  patient  shrug; 
For  sufferance  is  the  badge  of  all  our  tribe. 
You  call  me  misbeliever,  cut-throat  dog, 
And  spit  upon  my  Jewish  gaberdine. 
And  all  for  use  of  that  which  is  mine  own. 
Well  then,  it  now  appears,  you  need  my  help. 
Go  to^  then ;  you  come  to  me,  and  you  say, 
Shi/lock,  we  would  have  moneys  ;  you  say  so ; 
You,  that  did  void  your  rheum  upon  my  beard, 
And  foot  me,  as  you  spurn  a  stranger  cur 
Over  yom-  threshold ;  luoneys  is  your  suit. 


Act  I.]  MERCHANT    OF   VENICE.  525 

What  shall  I  say  to  you  ?    Should  I  not  say, 
Hath  a  dog  money  ?    Is  it  possible 
A  cur  can  lend  three  thousand  ducats  ?    Or 
Shall  I  bend  low,  and  in  a  bondman's  key, 
With  'bated  breath,  and  -whispering  humbleness, 

Say  this, 

Fair  sir,  you  spit  on  me  on   Wednesday  last ; 
You  spurned  me  such  a  day ;  another  time 
You  called  me  dog ;  and  for  these  courtesies 
Til  lend  you  thus  much  moneys? 

Ant.    I  am  as  like  to  call  thee  so  again. 
To  spit  on  thee  again,  to  spurn  thee  too. 
If  thou  wilt  lend  this  money,  lend  it  not 
As  to  thy  friends ;  (for  when  did  friendship  take 
A  breed  for  barren  metal  of  his  friend?) 
But  lend  it  rather  to  thine  enemy ; 
Who  if  he  break,  thou  may'st  with  better  face 
Exact  the  penalty. 

Shy.  Why,  look  you,  how  you  storm! 

I  would  be  friends  with  you,  and  have  your  love. 
Forget  the  shames  that  you  have  stained  me  with. 
Supply  your  present  wants,  and  take  no  doit 
Of  usance  for  my  moneys ;  and  you'll  not  hear  me. 
This  is  kind  I  offer. 

Ant.  This  were  kindness. 

Shy.    This  kindness  will  I  show. — 
Go  with  me  to  a  notary  ;  seal  me  there 
Your  single  bond ;  and,  in  a  merry  sport. 
If  you  repay  me  not  on  such  a  day. 
In  such  a  place,  such  sum,  or  sums,  as  are 
Expressed  in  the  condition,  let  the  forfeit 
Be  nominated  for  an  equal  pound 
Of  your  fair  flesh,  to  be  cut  off  and  taken 
In  what  part  of  your  body  pleaseth  me. 

Ant.    Content,  in  faith ;  I'll  seal  to  such  a  bond 
And  say,  there  is  much  kindness  in  the  Jew. 

Bass.    You  shall  not  seal  to  such  a  bond  for  me ; 
I'll  rather  dwell  in  my  necessity. 

Ant.    Why,  fear  not,  man  ;  I  will  not  forfeit  it. 
Within  these  two  months,  —  that's  a  month  before 
This  bond  expires,  —  I  do  expect  return 
Of  thrice  three  times  the  value  of  this  bond. 

Shy.    0  father  Abraham,  what  these  Christians  are; 
Whose  own  hard  dealings  teaches  them  suspect 
The  thoughts  of  others !     Pray  you,  tell  me  this ; 
If  he  should  break  his  day,  what  should  I  gain 


526  MERCHANT    OF   VENICE.         [Act  II 

By  the  oxaction  of  the  forfeiture  ? 

A  pound  of  man's  flesh,  taken  from  a  man. 

Is  not  so  estimable,  profitable  neither, 

As  flesh  of  muttons,  beefs,  or  goats.     I  say, 

To  buy  his  favor,  I  extend  this  friendship. 

If  he  will  take  it,  so  ;  if  not,  adieu ; 

And,  for  my  love,  I  pray  you  wrong  me  not. 

Ant.    Yes,  Shylock,  I  will  seal  unto  this  bond. 

Shy.    Then  meet  me  forthAvith  at  the  notary's; 
Give  him  direction  for  this  merry  bond. 
And  I  will  go  and  purse  the  ducats  straight, 
See  to  my  house,  left  in  the  fearful  guard 
Of  an  unthrifty  knave ;  and  presently 
I  will  be  with  you.  [Exit 

Ant.  Hie  thee,  gentle  Jew. 

This  Hebrew  will  turn  Christian ;  he  grows  kind. 

Bass.    I  like  not  fair  terms,  and  a  villain's  mind. 

Ant.    Come  on;  in  this  there  can  be  no  dismay; 
My  ships  come  home  a  month  before  the  day.      [Exeunt. 


ACT   II. 

SCENE  I.     Belmont.     A  Room  in  Portia's  House, 
Flourish  of  Cornets. 

'  Enter  the  Prince  of  Morocco,  and  his  Train ;  Portia, 
Nerissa,  a7id  other  of  her  Attendants. 

3for.    Mislike  me  not  for  my  complexion, 
The  shadowed  livery  of  the  burnished  sun, 
To  whom  I  am  a  neighbor  and  near  bred. 
Bring  me  the  fairest  creature  northward  born, 
Where  Phcebus'  fire  scarce  thaws  the  icicles, 
And  let  us  make  incision  for  your  love. 
To  prove  whose  blood  is  reddest,  his  or  mine, 
I  tell  thee,  lady,  this  aspect  of  mine 
Hath  feared  the  valiant ;  by  my  love,  I  swear, 
The  best  regarded  virgins  of  our  clime 
Have  loved  it  too.     I  would  not  change  this  hue, 
Except  to  steal  your  thoughts,  my  gentle  queeiL. 

For.    In  terms  of  choice  I  am  not  solely  led 
By  nice  direction  of  a  maiden's  eyes. 
Besides,  the  lottery  of  my  destiny 


Act  II.]         MERCHANT    OF   VENICE  527 

Bars  me  the  right  of  voluntary  choosing. 

But,  if  my  father  had  not  scanted  me, 

And  hedged  me  by  his  wit  to  yield  myself 

His  wife,  who  wins  me  by  that  means  I  told  you, 

Yourself,  renowned  prince,  then  stood  as  fair, 

As  any  comer  I  have  looked  on  yet, 

For  my  affectioa. 

Mor.  Even  for  that  I  thank  you; 

Therefore,  I  pray  you,  lead  me  to  the  caskets, 
To  try  my  fortune.     By  this  cimeter, — 
That  slew  the  sophy,  and  a  Persian  prince, 
That  won  three  fields  of  sultan  Solyman, — 
I  would  outstare  the  sternest  eyes  that  look, 
Outbrave  the  heart  most  daring  on  the  earth, 
Pluck  the  young  sucking  cubs  from  the  she-bear, 
Yea,  mock  the  lion  when  he  roars  for  prey, 
To  wm  thee,  lady.     But,  alas  the  while 
If  Hercules  and  Lichas  play  at  dice, 
Which  is  the  better  man,  the  greater  throw 
May  turn  by  fortune  from  the  weaker  hand. 
So  is  Alcides  beaten  by  his  page : 
And  so  may  I,  blind  fortune  leading  me, 
Miss  that  which  one  unworthier  may  attain, 
And  die  with  grieving. 

Por.  You  must  take  your  chance, 

And  either  not  attempt  to  choose  at  all, 
Or  swear,  before  you  choose,  if  you  choose  wrong, 
Never  to  speak  to  lady  afterward 
In  way  of  marriage ;  therefore  be  advised. 

Mor.    Nor  will  not ;  come,  bring  me  unto  my  chance. 

Por.    First,  forward  to  the  temple;  after  dinner, 
Your  hazard  shall  be  made. 

Mor.  Good  fortune  then !     [CorneU. 

To  make  me  blest,  or  cursed'st  among  men.        \^Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.     Venice.     A  Street, 
Enter  Launcelot  Gobbo. 

Laun.  Certainly  my  conscience  will  serve  me  to  run  from 
this  Jew,  my  master.  The  fiend  is  at  mine  elbow,  and  tempts 
me,  saying  to  me,  Crobbo,  Launcelot  Grobbo,  good  Launcelot, 
or  good  Gobbo,  or  good  Launcelot  Gobbo,  use  your  legs,  take 
the  start,  run  away.  My  conscience  says, —  no  ;  take  heed, 
honest  Launcelot;  take  heed,  honest  Gobbo;  or,  as  afore- 
said, honest  Launcelot  Gobbo,  do  not  run ;  scorn  running 


528  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.        [Act  II. 

with  tliy  heels.  Well,  the  most  courageous  fiend  bids  me 
pack;  via!  says  the  fiend;  away!  says  the  fiend, /or  ^7ie 
heavens ;  rouse  up  a  brave  mind,  says  the  fiend,  and  run. 
Well,  my  conscience,  hanging  about  the  neck  of  my  heart, 
says  very  Avisely  to  me, —  my  honest  friend  Launcelot,  being 
an  honest  man's  son. —  or  rather  an  honest  woman's  son: 
for,  indeed,  my  father  did  something  smack,  something  grow 
to,  he  had  a  kind  of  taste ;  —  well,  my  conscience  says, 
Launcelot,  budge  not;  budge,  says  the  fiend;  budge  not, 
says  my  conscience.  Conscience,  say  I,  you  counsel  well ; 
fiend,  say  I,  you  counsel  well.  To  be  ruled  by  my  conscience, 
I  should  stay  with  the  Jew,  my  master,  who  (God  bless  the 
mark  !)  is  a  kind  of  devil ;  and  to  run  away  from  the  Jew, 
I  should  be  ruled  by  the  fiend,  who,  saving  your  reverence, 
is  the  devil  himself.  Certainly,  the  Jew  is  the  very  devil 
incarnation ;  and,  in  my  conscience,  my  conscience  is  but  a 
kind  of  hard  conscience,  to  offer  to  counsel  me  to  stay  with 
the  Jew.  The  fiend  gives  the  more  friendly  counsel.  I  will 
run,  fiend ;  my  heels  are  at  your  commandment ;  I  will  run. 

Enter  old  Gobbo  with  a  Basket. 

Grob.  Master,  young  man,  you,  I  pray  you ;  which  is  the 
way  to  master  Jew's  ? 

Laun.  \_ Aside.']  0  Heavens,  this  is  my  true  begotten 
father  !  who,  being  more  than  sand-blind,  high-gravel  blind, 
knows  me  not. — I  will  try  conclusions  with  him. 

Grob.  Master,  young  gentleman,  I  pray  you,  which  is  the 
way  to  master  Jew's  ? 

Laun.  Turn  up  on  your  right  hand,  at  the  next  turning, 
but,  at  the  next  turning  of  all,  on  your  left ;  marry,  at  the 
very  next  turning,  turn  of  no  hand,  but  turn  down  indirectly 
to  the  Jew's  house. 

Gob.  By  God's  sonties,  'twill  be  a  hard  way  to  hit.  Can 
you  tell  me  whether  one  Launcelot,  that  dwells  with  him, 
dwell  Avith  him,  or  no  ? 

Laun.  Talk  you  of  young  master  Launcelot?  —  Mark 
me  now  ;  [^si'tZe.]  now  will  I  raise  the  waters.  —  Talk  you 
of  young  master  Launcelot  ? 

Crob.  No  master,  sir,  but  a  poor  man's  son.  His  father, 
though  I  say  it,  is  an  honest,  exceeding  poor  man,  and,  God 
be  thanked,  well  t«o  live. 

I^aun.  Well,  let  his  father  be  what  he  will,  we  talk  of 
young  master  Launcelot. 

Gob.    Your  worsliip's  friend,  and  Launcelot,  sir. 

Laun.  But  I  pray  you  ergo,  old  man,  ergo,  I  beseech 
you ;  talk  you  of  young  master  Launcelot  ? 


MERCHANT   OF    YEN  ICE.  529 

G-oh.    Of  Launcelot,  an't  please  your  mastership. 

Laun.  J^rgo,  master  Launcelot;  talk  not  of  master 
Launcelot,  father ;  for  the  young  gentleman  (according  to 
fates  a,nd  destinies,  and  such  odd  sayings,  the  sisters  three, 
and  such  branches  of  learning)  is,  indeed,  deceased  ;  or,  as 
you  would  say,  in  plain  terms,  gone  to  heaven. 

G-oh.  Marry,  God  forbid !  The  boy  was  the  very  staff 
of  my  age,  my  very  prop. 

Laun.  Do  I  look  like  a  cudgel,  or  a  hovel-post,  a  staff, 
or  a  prop?  —  Do  you  know  me,  father? 

Gob.  Alack  the  day,  I  know  you  not,  young  gentleman ; 
but  I  pray  you,  tell  me,  is  my  boy  (God  rest  his  soul !)  alive, 
or  dead  ? 

Laun.    Do  you  not  know  me,  father  ? 

Goh.    Alack,  sir,  I  am  sand-blind  ;  I  know  you  not. 

Laun.  Nay,  indeed,  if  you  had  your  eyes,  you  might  fail 
of  the  knowing  me.  It  is  a  wise  father  that  knows  his  own 
child.  "Well,  old  man,  I  will  tell  you  news  of  your  son. 
Give  me  your  blessing ;  truth  will  come  to  light ;  murder 
cannot  be  hid  long,  a  man's  son  may ;  but,  in  the  end,  truth 
will  out. 

Goh.  Pray  you,  sir,  stand  up ;  I  am  sure  you  are  not 
Launcelot,  my  boy. 

Laun.  Pray  you,  let's  have  no  more  fooling  about  it, 
but  give  me  your  blessing ;  I  am  Launcelot,  your  boy  thai 
was,  your  son  that  is,  your  child  that  shall  be. 

Goh.    I  cannot  think  you  are  my  son. 

Laun.  I  know  not  what  I  shall  think  of  that ;  but  I  am 
Launcelot,  the  Jew's  man ;  and,  I  am  sure,  Margery,  your 
wife,  is  my  mother. 

Goh.  Her  name  is  Margery,  indeed.  I'll  be  sworn,  if 
thou  be  Launcelot,  thou  art  mine  own  flesh  and  blood. 
Lord  worshipped  might  he  be !  What  a  beard  hast  thou 
got !  Thou  hast  got  more  hair  on  thy  chin,  than  Dobbin, 
my  thill-horse,  has  on  his  tail. 

Laun.  It  should  seem,  then,  that  Dobbin's  tail  grows 
backward ;  I  am  sure  he  had  more  hair  on  his  tail,  than  I 
have  on  my  face,  when  I  last  saw  him. 

Goh.  Lord,  how  art  thou  changed  !  How  dost  thou  and 
thy  master  agree  ?  I  have  brought  him  a  present.  How 
'grce  you  now  ? 

Laun.  Well,  well ;  but  for  mine  own  part,  as  I  have  set 
up  my  rest  to  run  away,  so  I  will  not  rest  till  I  have  run 
some  ground.  My  master's  a  very  Jew.  Give  him  a  pre- 
sent !  Give  him  a  halter  !  I  am  famished  in  his  service : 
you  may  tell  every  finger  I  have  with  my  ribs.     Father,  I 

Vol.  I.  —  34  2  u 


530  MERCHANT    OF   VENICE.        [Act  II. 

am  glad  j^ou  are  come ;  give  me  your  present  to  one  master 
Ba.^.<anio,  Avho,  indeed,  gives  rare  new  liveries  ;  if  I  servo 
not  liim,  I  will  run  as  far  as  God  has  any  ground.  —  0  rare 
fortune  !  here  comes  the  man  ; — to  him,  father ;  for  I  am  a 
JeM",  if  I  serve  the  Jew  any  longer. 

Enter  Bassanio,  with  Leonardo,  and  other  Followers. 

Bass.  You  may  do  so;  —  but  let  it  be  so  hasted,  that 
supper  be  ready  at  the  furthest  by  five  of  the  clock.  See 
these  letters  delivered ;  put  the  liveries  to  making ;  and 
desire  Gratiano  to  come  anon  to  my  lodging. 

\_Hxit  a  Servant. 

Laun.    To  him,  father. 

Crob.    God  bless  your  worship  ! 

Bass.    Gramercy ;  would'st  thou  aught  with  me  ? 

Gob.    Here's  my  son,  sir,  a  poor  boy, 

Laun.  Not  a  poor  boy,  sir,  but  the  rich  Jew's  man ;  that 
would,  sir,  as  my  father  shall  specify, 

Gob.  He  hath  a  great  infection,  sir,  as  one  would  say,  to 
serve 

Laun.  Indeed,  the  short  and  the  long  is,  I  serve  the  Jew, 
and  I  have  a  desire,  as  my  father  shall  specify, 

Gob.  His  master  and  he  (saving  your  worship's  reverence) 
are  scarce  cater-cousins. 

Laun.  To  be  brief,  the  very  truth  is,  that  the  Jew,  having 
done  me  wrong,  doth  cause  me,  as  my  father,  being  I  hope 
an  old  man,  shall  fruitify  unto  you, 

Gob.  I  have  here  a  dish  of  doves,  that  I  would  bestow 
upon  your  worship  ;  and  my  suit  is, 

Laun.  In  very  brief,  the  suit  is  impertinent  to  myself,  as 
your  worship  shall  know  by  this  honest  old  man ;  and,  though 
I  say  it,  though  old  man,  yet  poor  man,  my  father. 

Bass.    One  speak  for  both.  —  What  would  you  ? 

Laun.    Serve  you,  sir. 

Gob.    This  is  the  very  defect  of  the  matter,  sir. 

Bass.    I  know  thee  well ;  thou  hast  obtained  thy  suit. 
Shylock,  thy  master,  spoke  with  me  this  day, 
And  hath  preferred  thee,  if  it  be  preferment. 
To  leave  a  rich  Jew's  service,  to  become 
The  follower  of  so  poor  a  gentleman. 

Laun.  The  old  proverb  is  very  well  parted  between  my 
niaster  Shylock  and  you,  sir;  you  have  the  grace  of  God, 
sir,  and  he  hath  enough. 

Bass.  Thou  speake^t  it  well.     Go,  father,  with  thy  son  ; 
Take  leave  of  thy  old  master,  and  inquire 


Act  II.]        MERCHANT   OF    VENICE.  531 

My  lodging  out.  —  Give  him  a  livery.     \_To  liis  followers. 
More  guarded  than  his  fellows'.     See  it  done. 

Laun.  Father,  in. — I  cannot  get  a  service,  no  ; — I  have 
ne'er  a  tongue  in  my  head.  —  Well ;  [Looking  on  his  palm.'\ 
if  any  man  in  Italy  have  a  fairer  table,  which  doth  offer  to 
swear  upon  a  book,  I  shall  have  good  fortune.  Go  to,  hei'e's 
a  simple  line  of  life !  Here's  a  small  trifle  of  wives.  Alas, 
fifteen  is  nothing ;  eleven  widows,  and  nine  maids,  is  a 
simple  coming-in  for  one  man,  and  then,  to  'scape  drowning 
thrice ;  and  to  be  in  peril  of  my  life  with  the  edge  of  a 
feather-bed;  —  here  are  simple  'scapes!  Well,  if  fortune 
be  a  woman,  she's  a  good  wench  for  this  gear.  —  Father, 
come ;  I'll  take  my  leave  of  the  Jew  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye.  \_Exeunt  Launcelot  and  old  Gobbo. 

Bass.    I  pray  thee,  good  Leonardo,  think  on  this ; 
These  things  being  bought,  and  orderly  bestowed, 
Return  in  haste,  for  I  do  feast  to-night 
My  best-esteemed  acquaintance ;  hie  thee,  go. 

Leon.  My  best  endeavors  shall  be  done  herein. 

Enter  Gratiano. 

Gra.    Where  is  your  master? 

Leon.  Yonder,  sir,  he  walks. 

[Exit  Leonardo 

G-ra.  Seignior  Bassanio, — 

Bass.    Gratiano  ! 

G-ra.    I  have  a  suit  to  you. 

Bass.  You  have  obtained  it. 

Gra.    You  must  not  deny  me ;  I  must  go  with  you  to 
Belmont. 

Bass.    Why,  then  you  must ! — but  hear  thee,  Gratiano ; 
Then  art  too  wild,  too  rude,  and  bold  of  voice ; 
Parts  that  become  thee  happily  enough, 
And  in  such  eyes  as  ours  appear  not  faults ; 
But  where  thou  art  not  known,  why,  there  they  show, 
Something  too  liberal ;  —  pray  thee,  take  pain 
To  allay  with  some  cold  drops  of  modesty 
Thy  skipping  spirit ;  lest,  through  thy  wild  behavior, 
I  be  misconstrued  in  the  place  I  go  to. 
And  lose  my  hopes. 

Gra.  Seignior  Bassanio,  hear  me. 

If  I  do  not  put  on  a  sober  habit. 
Talk  with  respect,  and  swear  but  now  ai.d  then. 
Wear  prayer-books  in  my  pocket,  look  demurely; 
Nay,  more,  while  grace  is  saying,  hood  mine  eyes 
Thus  with  my  hat,  and  sigh,  and  say,  Amen; 


532  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE  [Act  II 

Use  all  the  observance  of  civility, 

Like  one  well  studied  in  a  sad  ostent 

To  please  his  grandam,  never  trust  me  more 

Bass.    Well,  we  shall  see  your  bearing. 

Gm.  Nay,  but  I  bar  to-night ;  you  shall  not  gage  mo 
By  what  we  do  to-night. 

Bass.  No,  that  were  pity; 

I  would  entreat  you  rather  to  put  on 
Your  boldest  suit  of  mirth,  for  we  have  friends 
That  purpose  merriment.     But  fare  you  well ; 
I  have  some  business. 

G-ra.    And  I  must  to  Lorenzo,  and  the  rest ; 
But  we  will  visit  you  at  supper-time.  [_Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.     TJie  same.     A  Boom  iri  Shylock's  Rouse. 
Enter  Jessica  and  Launcelot. 

Jess.    I  am  sorry,  thou  wilt  leave  my  father  so ; 
Our  house  is  hell,  and  thou,  a  merry  devil. 
Didst  rob  it  of  some  taste  of  tediousness. 
But  fare  thee  well ;  there  is  a  ducat  for  thee. 
And,  Launcelot,  soon  at  supper  shalt  thou  see 
Lorenzo,  who  is  thy  new  master's  guest. 
Give  him  this  letter ;  do  it  secretly ; 
And  so  farewell ;  I  would  not  have  my  father 
See  me  talk  with  thee. 

Laun.  Adieu  !  —  Tears  exhibit  my  tongue. —  Most  beau- 
tiful pagan, —  most  sweet  Jew  !  If  a  Christian  did  not  play 
the  knave,  and  get  thee,  I  am  much  deceived.  But  adieu ! 
These  foolish  drops  do  somewhat  drown  my  manly  spirit ; 
adieu !  \^Exit. 

Jess.    Farewell,  good  Launcelot. — 
Alack,  what  heinous  sin  is  it  in  me 
To  be  ashamed  to  be  my  father's  child ! 
But  though  I  am  a  daughter  to  his  blood, 
I  am  not  to  his  manners.     0  Lorenzo, 
If  thou  keep  promise,  I  shall  end  this  strife; 
Become  a  Christian,  and  thy  loving  wife.  {Exit. 

SCENE  IV.     Tlie  same.     A  Street. 
Enter  Gratiano,  Lorenzo,  Salarino,  and  Salanio. 

Lor.    Nay,  we  will  slink  away  in  supper-time ; 
Disguise  us  at  my  lodging,  and  return 
k\\  in  an  hour. 


Act  II.]         MERCHANT    OF   VENICE.  535 

Gra.    We  have  not  made  good  preparation. 

Solar.    We  have  not  spoke  us  yet  of  torth-bearers. 

Solan.  'Tis  vile,  unless  it  may  be  quaintly  ordered; 
And  better,  in  my  mind,  not  undertook. 

Lor.  'Tis  now  but  four  o'clock ;  we  have  two  hours 
To  furnish  us. — 

Enter  Launcelot,  loitli  a  Letter. 

Friend  Launcelot,  what's  the  news? 

Laun.    An  it  shall  please  you  to  break  up  this,  it  shall 
seem  to  signify. 

Lor.    I  know  the  hand :  in  faith,   'tis  a  fair  hand ; 
And  whiter  than  the  paper  it  writ  on, 
Is  the  fair  hand  that  writ. 

Crra.  Love-news,  in  faith. 

Laun.    By  your  leave,  sir. 

Lor.    Whither  goest  thou  ? 

Laun.    Marry,  sir,  to  bid  my  old  master  the  Jew  to  sup 
to-night  with  my  new  master  the  Christian. 

Lor.    Hold  here,  take  this.  —  Tell  gentle  Jessica, 
I  will  not  fail  her; — speak  it  privately;  go. — 
Gentlemen,  [Exit  Launcelot. 

Will  you  prepare  you  for  this  mask  to-night  ? 
I  am  provided  of  a  torch-bearer. 

Salar.    Ay,  marry,  I'll  be  gone  about  it  straight. 

Salan.    And  so  will  I. 

Lor.  Meet  me,  and  Gratiano, 

At  Gratiano's  lodging,  some  hour  hence. 

Salar.    'Tis  good  we  do  so. 

[Exeunt  Salar.  and  Salan. 

Crra.  Was  not  that  letter  from  fair  Jessica  ? 

Lor.    I  must  needs  tell  thee  all.     She  hath  directed, 
How  I  shall  take  her  from  her  father's  house; 
What  gold,  and  jewels,  she  is  furnished  with; 
What  page's  suit  she  hath  in  readiness. 
If  e'er  the  Jew  her  father  come  to  heaven, 
It  will  be  for  his  gentle  daughter's  sake ; 
And  never  dare  misfortune  cross  her  foot, 
Unless  she  do  it  under  this  excuse, — 
That  she  is  issue  to  a  faithless  Jew. 
Come,  go  with  me;  peruse  this,  as  thou  goc«t; 
Fair  Jessica  shall  be  my  torch-bearer.  [Exeunt 

2u* 


o3l  MERCHANT    OF   VENICE.        [Act  Tl 


SCENE  V.     The  same.     Before  Shylock's  Some. 
Enter  Shylock  and  Launcelot. 

Shy,    Well,  thou  shalt  see,  thy  eyes  shall  be  thy  judge, 
The  diiference  of  old  Shylock  and  Bassanio. — 
What,  Jessica  !  —  Thou  shalt  not  gormandize. 
As  thou  hast  done  with  me ;  —  what,  Jessica  ! — 
And  sleep  and  snore,  and  rend  apparel  out ; — 
Why,  Jessica,  I  say  ! 

Laun.  Why,  Jessica ! 

Shy.    Who  bids  thee  call  ?  I  do  not  bid  thee  call. 

Laun.  Your  worship  was  wont  to  tell  me,  I  could  do  no- 
thincf  without  bidding. 

Enter  Jessica. 

Jes.    Call  you?     What  is  your  will? 

Shy.    I  am  bid  forth  to  supper,  Jessica. 
There  are  my  keys :  —  but  wherefore  should  I  go  ? 
I  am  not  bid  for  love ;  they  flatter  me : 
But  yet  I'll  go  in  hate,  to  feed  upon 
The  prodigal  Christian.  —  Jessica,  my  girl, 
Look  to  my  house.     I  am  right  loath  to  go. 
There  is  some  ill  a  brewing  towards  my  rest, 
For  I  did  dream  of  money-bags  to-night. 

Laun.  I  beseech  you,  sir,  go  ;  my  young  master  doth  ex- 
pect your  reproach. 

Sliy.    So  do  I  his. 

Laun.  And  they  have  conspired  together.  —  I  will  not 
say,  you  shall  see  a  mask ;  but  if  you  do,  then  it  was  not 
for  nothing  that  my  nose  fell  a  bleeding  on  Black-Monday 
last  at^  six  o'clock  i'  the  morning,  falhng  out  that  year  on 
Ash  Wednesday,  was  four  year  in  the  afternoon. 

Shy.    What !  are  there  masks  ?     Hear  you  me,  Jessica. 
Lock  up  my  doors;  and  when  you  hear  the  drum, 
And  the  vile  squeaking  of  the  wry-necked  fife, 
Clamber  not  you  up  to  the  casements  then. 
Nor  thrust  your  head  into  the  public  street. 
To  gaze  on  Christian  fools  with  varnished  faces; 
But  stop  my  house's  ears,  I  mean  my  casements; 
Let  not  the  sound  of  shallow  foppery  enter 
My  sober  house. — By  Jacob's  staff,  I  swear, 
T  have  no  mind  of  feasting  forth  to-nio-ht ; 
But  I  will  go.  —  Go  you  before  me,  sirrah 
Say,  I  will  come. 

Laun.  I  will  go  before,  sir; — 


AcTlI.J         MERCHANT   OF   YE  NICE.  535 

Mistress,  look  out  at  window  for  all  this; 
There  Avill  come  a  Christian  by, 
Will  be  worth  a  Jewess'  eye.  \_Exit  Laun 

Shy.    What  says  that  fool  of  Hagar's  offspring,  ha? 

Jes.    His  words  were,  Farewell,  mistress ;  nothing  else. 

Shy.    The  patch  is  kind  env)ugh ;  but  a  huge  feeder, 
Snail-slow  in  profit,  and  he  sleeps  by  day 
More  than  the  wild  cat.     Drones  hive  not  with  me ; 
Therefore  I  part  with  him ;  and  part  with  him 
To  one  that  I  would  have  hira  help  to  waste 
His  borrowed  purse.     Well,  Jessica,  go  in ; 
Perhaps  I  will  return  immediately. 
Do,  as  I  bid  you. 

Shut  doors  after  you  ;  fast  bind,  fast  find ; 
A  proverb  never  stale  in  thrifty  mind.  \^Exit 

Jes.    Farewell ;  and  if  my  fortune  be  not  crossed, 
I  have  a  father,  you  a  daughter,  lost.  \^Exit 

SCENE  VI.     The  same.     Enter  Gratia  no  and 
Salarino,  masked. 

Grra.    This  is  the  pent-house,  under  which  Lorenzo 
Desired  us  to  make  stand. 

Solar.  His  hour  is  almost  past. 

G-ra.    And  it  is  marvel  he  outdwells  his  hour. 
For  lovers  ever  run  before  the  clock. 

Salar.    0,  ten  times  faster  Venus'  pigeons  fly 
To  seal  love's  bonds  new  made,  than  they  are  wont. 
To  keep  obliged  faith  unforfeited  ! 

Chra.    That  ever  holds.     Who  riseth  from  a  feast 
With  that  keen  appetite  that  he  sits  down  ? 
Where  is  the  horse  that  doth  untread  again 
His  tedious  measures  with  the  unbated  fire 
That  he  did  pace  them  first  ?     All  things  that  ai*e, 
Are  with  more  spirit  chased  than  enjoyed. 
How  like  a  younker,  or  a  prodigal, 
The  scarfed  bark  puts  from  her  native  bay. 
Hugged  and  embraced  by  the  strumpet  wind ! 
How  like  the  prodigal  doth  she  return. 
With  over-weathered  ribs,  and  ragged  sails. 
Lean,  rent,  and  beggared  by  the  strumpet  wind ! 

Enter  Lorenzo. 

Salar.    Here  comes  Lorenzo;  —  more  of  this  hereafter. 
Lor.    Sweet  friends,  your  patience  for  my  long  abode 
Not  I,  but  my  affairs,  have  made  you  wait ; 


536  MERCHANT  OF  VENUE.         [Act  11 

WTien  jou  shall  please  to  play  the  thieves  for  wives, 
I'll  watch  as  long  for  you  then,  —  Approach! 
Here  dwells  my  father  Jew.  —  Ho!  Who's  within? 

Enter  Jessica  above,  in  Boy's  Clothes. 

Jes.    Who  are  you?     Tell  me  for  more  certainty. 
Albeit  I'll  swear  that  I  do  know  your  tongue. 

Lor.    Lorenzo,  and  thy  love. 

Jes.    Lorenzo,  certain ;  and  my  love  indeed ; 
For  who  love  I  so  much  ?    And  now  who  knows, 
But  you,  Lorenzo,  whether  I  am  yours  ? 

Lor.  Heaven,  and  thy  thoughts,  are  witness  that  thou  art 

Jes.    Here,  catch  this  casket ;  it  is  worth  the  pains. 
I  am  glad  'tis  night,  you  do  not  look  on  me, 
For  I  am  much  asha<med  of  my  exchange ; 
But  love  is  blind,  and  lovers  cannot  see 
The  pretty  follies  that  themselves  commit ; 
For,  if  they  could,  Cupid  himself  would  blush 
To  see  me  thus  transformed  to  a  boy. 

Lor.    Descend,  for  you  must  be  my  torch-bearer. 

Jes.    What,  must  I  hold  a  candle  to  my  shames? 
They  in  themselves,  good  sooth,  are  too,  too  light 
Why,  'tis  an  office  of  discovery,  love ; 
And  I  should  be  obscured. 

Lor.  So  are  you,  sweet. 

Even  in  the  lovely  garnish  of  a  boy. 
But  come  at  once ; 

For  the  close  night  doth  play  the  runaway, 
And  we  are  staid  for  at  Bassanio's  feast. 

Jes.    I  will  make  fast  the  doors,  and  gild  myself 
W^ith  some  more  ducats,  and  be  wdth  you  straight. 

[^Exit  from  above. 

Gra.    Now,  by  my  hood,  a  Gentile,  and  no  Jew. 

Lor.    Beshrew  me,  but  I  love  her  heartily. 
For  she  is  wise,  if  I  can  judge  of  her ; 
And  fair  she  is,  if  that  mine  eyes  be  true ; 
And  true  she  is,  as  she  hath  proved  herself; 
And  therefore,  like  herself,  wise,  fair,  and  true, 
Shall  she  be  placed  in  my  constant  soul. 

Enter  Jessica,  below. 

What,  art  thou  come?  —  On,  gentlemen,  away; 
Our  masking  mates  by  this  time  for  us  stay. 

\Exit  with  Jessica  and  Salabino. 


AotII.1        merchant  of  VENICE.  537 

Enter  Antonio. 

Ant.    Who's  there  ? 

Cri'a.    Seignior  Antonio ' 

Ant.    Fie,  fie,   Gratiano !     Where  are  all  the  rest  ? 
*Tis  nine  o'clock ;  our  friends  all  stay  for  you. — 
No  mask  to-night :  the  wind  is  come  about ; 
Bassanio  presently  will  go  aboard. 
I  have  sent  twenty  out  to  seek  for  you. 

G-ra.    I  am  glad  on't ;  I  desire  no  more  delight, 
Than  to  be  under  sail  and  gone  to-night.  [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII.     Belmont.     A  Room  in  Portia's  House. 
Flourish  of  Cornets. 

Enter  Portia,  loith  the  Prince  of  Morocco,  and  hoth  their 

Trains. 

Por.    Go,  draw  aside  the  curtains,  and  discover 
The  several  caskets  to  this  noble  prince. — 
Now  make  your  choice. 

Mar.    The  first,  of  gold,  who  this  inscription  bears ;  — 
Who  chooseth  me,  shall  gain  what  many  men  desire. 
The  second,  silver,  which  this  promise  carries ;  — 
WJio  chooseth  me,  shall  get  as  much  as  he  deserves. 
This  third,  dull  lead,  Avith  warning  all  as  blunt ; 
Who  chooseth  me,  must  give  and  hazard  all  lie  hath. 
How  shall  I  know  if  I  do  choose  the  right  ? 

Por.    The  one  of  them  contains  ray  picture,  prince ; 
If  you  choose  that,  then  I  am  yours  withal. 

Mor.    Some  god  direct  my  judgment!  let  me  see; 
I  will  survey  the  inscriptions  back  again. 
What  says  this  leaden  casket? 

Who  chooseth  me,  nnist  give  and  hazard,  all  he  hath. 
Must  give  —  for  what  ?  for  lead  ?  hazard  for  lead  ? 
This  casket  threatens.     Men,  that  hazard  all. 
Do  it  in  hope  of  fair  advantages : 
A  golden  mind  stoops  not  to  shows  of  dross ; 
I'll  then  nor  give,  nor  hazard,  aught  for  lead. 
What  says  the  silver,  with  her  virgin  hue  ? 
WIlo  chooseth  me,  shall  get  as  much  as  he  deserves. 
As  much  as  he  deserves?  —  Pause  there,  Morocco, 
And  weigh  thy  value  with  an  even  hand. 
If  thou  be'st  rated  by  thy  estimation. 
Thou  dost  deserve  enough ;  and  yet  enough 
May  not  extend  so  far  as  to  the  lady ; 


538  MERCHANT    OF   VENICE.        [Act  II 

And  yet  to  be  afeard  of  my  deserving, 

Were  but  a  weak  disabling  of  myself. 

As  much  as  I  deserve !  — Why,  that's  the  lady. 

I  do  in  birth  deserve  her,  and  in  fortunes, 

In  graces,  and  in  qualities  of  breeding  ; 

But  more  than  these,  in  love  I  do  deserve. 

What  if  I  strayed  no  further,  but  chose  here?  — 

Let's  see  once  more  this  saying  graved  in  gold ; 

Wlio  chooseth  me,  shall  gain  what  many  men  desire. 

Why,  that's  the  lady ;  all  the  world  desires  her. 

From  the  four  corners  of  the  earth  they  come. 

To  kiss  this  shrine,  this  mortal  breathing  saint. 

The  Hyrcanian  deserts,   and  the  vasty  wilds 

Of  wide  Arabia,  are  as  throughfares  now. 

For  princes  to  come  view  fair  Portia. 

The  watery  kingdom,  whose  ambitious  head 

Spits  in  the  face  of  heaven,  is  no  bar 

To  stop  the  foreign  spirits ;  but  they  come. 

As  o'er  a  brook,  to  see  fair  Portia. 

One  of  these  three  contains  her  heavenly  picture. 

Ts't  like,  that  lead  contains  her  ?     'Twere  damnation, 

To  think  so  base  a  thought ;  it  were  too  gross 

To  rib  her  cerecloth  in  the  obscure  grave. 

Or  shall  I  think,  in  silver  she's  immured, 

Being  ten  times  undervalued  to  tried  gold  ? 

0  sinful  thought !     Never  so  rich  a  gem 

Was  set  in  worse  than  gold.     They  have  in  England 

A  coin  that  bears  the  figure  of  an  angel 

Stamped  in  gold ;  but  that's  insculped  upon ; 

But  here  an  angel  in  a  golden  bed 

Lies  all  within. — Deliver  me  the  key; 

Here  do  I  choose,  and  thrive  I  as  I  may ! 

Por.    There,  take  it,  prince,  and  if  my  form  lie  there, 
Then  I  am  yours.  [iZe  unlocks  the  golden  casket 

Mor.  0  hell !  what  have  we  here  ? 

A  carrion  death,  within  whose  empty  eye 
There  is  a  written  scroll.     I'll  read  the  writing. 

All  that  glisters  is  not  gold ; 
Often  have  you  heard  that  told; 
Many  a  man  his  life  hath  sold, 
But  my  outside  to  behold; 
G-ilded  tim,her  do  worms  infold. 
Had  you  been  as  wise  as  bold, 
Young  in  limbs,  in  judgment  old, 
Your  answer  had  not  been  inscrolUd. 
Fare  you  well;  your  suit  is  cold. 


Act  II.]         M  E  R  C  H  A  N  T    0  F    y  E  ^'  I C  E  539 

Cold,  indeed ;  and  labor  lost. 
Then,  farewell,  heat ;  and  welcome,  frost. — 
Portia,  adieu !     I  have  too  grieved  a  heart 
To  take  a  tedious  leave ;  thus  losers  part.  [Exit. 

Por.  A  gentle  riddance. Draw  the  curtains,  go  ; 

Let  all  of  his  complexion  choose  me  so.  \JExeunt, 

SCENE  VIII.     Venice.     A  Street. 
Enter  Salarino  and  Salanio. 

Solar.    Why,  man,  I  saw  Bassanio  under  sail; 
With  him  is  Gratiano  gone  along ; 
And  in  their  ship,  I  am  sure,  Lorenzo  is  not. 

Salan.    The  villain  Jew  with  outcries  raised  the  duke ; 
Who  went  with  him  to  search  Bassanio's  ship. 

Salar.    He  came  too  late ;  the  ship  was  under  sail ; 
But  there  the  duke  was  given  to  understand, 
That  in  a  gondola  were  seen  together 
Lorenzo  and  his  amorous  Jessica. 
Besides,  Antonio  certified  the  duke. 
They  were  not  with  Bassanio  in  his  ship. 

Salan.    I  never  heard  a  passion  so  confused, 
So  strange,  outrageous,  and  so  variable, 
As  the  dog  Jew  did  utter  in  the  streets. 
My  daughter! — 0  my  ducats! — 0  my  daughter! 
Fled  xoitli  a  Christian  ! — 0  my  Christian  ducats  ! — 
Justice!     TJie  law!     My  ducats,  and  my  daughter! 
A  sealed  hag,  two  sealed  hags  of  ducats, 
Of  double  ducats,  stolen  from  me  by  my  daughter ! 
And  jewels ;  two  stones,  two  rich  and  precious  stones^ 
Stolen  hy  my  daughter  !     Justice  !     Find  the  girl ! 
She  hath  the  stones  upon  her,  and  the  ducats ! 

Salar.    Why,  all  the  boys  in  Venice  follow  him, 
Crying,  —  his  stones,   his  daughter,  and  his  ducats. 

Salan.    Let  good  Antonio  look  he  keep  his  day, 
Or  he  shall  pay  for  this. 

Salar.  Marry,  well  remembered. 

I  reasoned  with  a  Frenchman  yesterday ; 
Who  told  me,  in  the  narrow  seas,  that  part 
The  French  and  English,  there  miscarried 
A  vessel  of  our  country,  richly  fraught. 
I  thought  upon  Antonio,  when  he  told  me. 
And  wished  in  silence  that  it  were  not  his. 

Salan.    You  were  best  to  tell  Antonio  what  you  hear; 
Yet  do  not  suddenly,  for  it  may  grieve  him. 


540  31  ]•:  1\  V  II  A N T   OF   Y E IN  I C  K .         [Act  II. 

Sahxr.    A  kinder  gentleman  treads  not  the  earth. 
I  saw  Bassanio  and  Antonio  part. 
Uassanio  told  him,  he  would  maks  some  speed 
Of  his  return;  he  answered  —  Do  not  so; 
Slubber  not  business  for  my  sake,  Bassanio, 
But  stay  the  very  riping  of  the  time ; 
And  for  the  Jeios  bond,  which  lie  hath  of  me, 
Let  it  not  enter  into  your  mind  of  love. 
Be  merry ;  and  employ  your  chief  est  thoughts 
To  courtship  and  such  fair  ostents  of  love 
As  shall  conveniently  become  you  there. 
And  even  there,  his  eye  being  big  with  tears, 
Turning  his  face,  he  put  his  hand  behind  him, 
And,  with  affection  wondrous  sensible, 
He  wrung  Bassanio's  hand,  and  so  they  parted. 

Salan.    I  think  he  only  loves  the  world  for  him. 
I  pray  thee,  let  us  go,  and  find  him  out, 
And  quicken  his  embraced  heaviness 
With  some  delight  or  other. 

Salar.  Do  we  so.  {Exeunt 

SCENE  IX.     Belmont.     A  Room  in  Portia's  House. 

Enter  Nbrissa,  with  a  Servant. 

Ker.   Quick,  quick,  I  pray  thee,  draw  the  curtain  straight ; 
The  prince  of  Arragon  hath  ta'en  his  oath. 
And  comes  to  his  election  presently. 

Flourish  of  Cornets. 
Enter  the  Prince  of  Arragon,  Portia,  and  their  Trains. 

For.    Behold,  there  stand  the  caskets,  noble  prince. 
If  you  choose  that  wherein  I  am  contained, 
Straight  shall  our  nuptial  rites  be  solemnized; 
But  if  you  fail,  without  more  speech,  my  lord, 
You  must  be  gone  from  hence  immediately. 

Ar.    I  am  enjoined  by  oath  to  observe  three  things. 
First,  never  to  unfold  to  any  one 
Which  casket  'twas  I  chose;  next,  if  I  fail 
Of  the  right  casket,  never  in  my  life 
To  woo  a  maid  in  way  of  marriage ;  lastly. 
If  I  do  fail  in  fortune  of  my  choice, 
Immediately  to  leave  you  and  be  gone. 

For.    To  these  injunctions  every  one  doth  swear, 
That  comes  to  hazard  for  my  worthless  self. 


ActTI]         me  RTH  a  XT   of   VENICE  54J 

Ar.    And  so  liave  I  addressed  me.     Fortune  no-v7 
To  mj  heart's  hope  !  —  Gold,  silver,  and  base  lead. 
Wlio  cJiooseth  me,  must  give  and  hazard  all  he  hath. 
You  shall  look  fairer,  ere  I  give,  or  hazard. 
What  says  the  golden  chest  ?     Ha !  let  rae  see. — 
Wlio  chooseth  me,  shall  gain  ivhat  many  men  desire. 
What  many  men  desire.  —  That  many  may  be  meant 
By  the  fool  multitude,  that  choose  by  show, 
Not  learning  more  than  the  fond  eye  doth  teach ; 
Which  pries  not  to  the  interior,  but,  like  the  martlet, 
Builds  in  the  weather  on  the  outward  wall, 
Even  in  the  force  and  road  of  casualty. 
I  will  not  choose  what  many  men  desire. 
Because  I  will  not  jump  with  common  spirits, 
And  rank  me  with  the  barbarous  multitudes. 
Why,  then  to  thee,  thou  silver  treasure-house ! 
Tell  me  once  more  what  title  thou  dost  bear. 
Who  chooseth  me,  shall  get  as  much  as  he  deserves; 
And  well  said  too ;  for  who  shall  go  about 
To  cozen  fortune,  and  be  honorable 
Without  the  stamp  of  merit  ?     Let  none  presume 
To  wear  an  undeserved  dignity. 
0,  that  estates,  degrees,  and  offices. 
Were  not  derived  corruptly ;  and  that  clear  honor 
Were  purchased  by  the  merit  of  the  wearer ! 
How  many  then  should  cover,  that  stand  bare ! 
How  many  be  commanded,  that  command ! 
How  much  low  peasantry  would  then  be  gleaned 
From  the  true  seed  of  honor,  and  how  much  honor 
Picked  from  the  chaff  and  ruin  of  the  times. 
To  be  new  varnished !     Well,  but  to  my  choice. 
WJio  chooseth  me,  shall  get  as  much  as  he  deserves. 
I  will  assume  desert ;  —  give  me  a  key  for  this, 
And  instantly  unlock  my  fortunes  here. 

For.    Too  long  a  pause  for  that  which  you  find  there. 

Ar.    What's  here?  the  portrait  of  a  blinking  idiot, 
Presenting  me  a  schedule.     I  Avill  read  it. 
How  much  unlike  art  thou  to  Portia ! 
How  much  unlike  my  hopes,  and  my  deservings ! 
Who  chooseth  me,  shall  have  as  much  as  he  deserves. 
Did  I  deserve  no  more  than  a  fool's  head  ? 
Is  that  my  prize  ?     Are  my  deserts  no  better  ? 

Por.    To  offend,  and  judge,  are  distinct  offices, 
And  of  opposed  natures. 

Ar.  What  is  here? 

2v 


542  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.         [An    Tl. 

The  fire  seven  times  tried  this; 
Seven  times  tried  that  judgrnent  is^ 
That  did  never  choose  amiss. 
Some  there  be  that  shadoivs  kiss; 
Such  have  but  a  shadow's  bliss. 
There  be  fools  alive,  I  wis, 
Silvered  o'er;  and  so  was  this. 
Take  what  wife  you  will  to  bed, 
T  will  ever  be  your  head. 
So  begone,  sir,  you  are  sped. 

Still  more  fool  I  shall  appear 

By  the  time  I  linger  here ; 

With  one  fool's  head  I  came  to  woo, 

But  I  go  away  with  two. — 

Sweet,  adieu !     I'll  keep  my  oath, 

Patiently  to  bear  my  wroath. 

\^Exeunt  Arragon,  and  Train 
Por.    Thus   hath  the  candle  singed  the  moth. 
0  these  deliberate  fools  !  when  they  do  choose, 
They  have  the  wisdom  by  their  wit  to  lose. 
Ner.    The  ancient  saying  is  no  heresy. — 
Hanging  and  wiving  goes  by  destiny. 
Por.    Come,  draw  the  curtain,  Nerissa. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.    Where  is  my  lady? 

Por.  Here ;  what  would  my  lord  ? 

Serv.    INIadam,  there  is   alighted  at  your  gate 
A  young  Venetian,  one  that  comes  before 
To  signify  the  approaching  of  his  lord ; 
From  whom  he  bringeth  sensible  regreets ; 
To  wit,  besides  commends,  and  courteous  breath, 
Gifts  of  rich  value.     Yet  I  have  not  seen 
So  likely  an  ambassador  of  love ; 
A   day  in  April  never  came  so  sweet, 
To  show  how  costly  summer  was  at  hand. 
As  this  fore-spurrer  comes  before  his  lord. 

Por.    No  more,  I  pray  thee.     I  am  half  afeard, 
Thou  wilt  say,  anon,  he  is  some  kin  to  thee, 
Thou  spcnd'st  such  high-day  wit  in  praising  him. — 
Come,  come,  Nerissa ;  for  I  long  to  see 
Quick  Cupid's  post,  that  comes  so  mannerly. 

Ner.   Bassanio,  lord  love,  if  thy  will  it  be !     [Exeunt. 


Act  TIL]       M  E  RCHAXT    OF    VENICE  543 

ACT   Til. 

SCENE  I.     Venice.     A  Street. 
Enter  Salanio  and  Salarino. 

iSalan.    Now,  what  news  on  the  Rialto  ? 

Salar.  Why,  yet  it  lives  there  unchecked,  that  Antonio 
hath  a  ship  of  rich  lading  wrecked  on  the  narrow  seas ;  the 
Goodwins,  I  think  they  call  the  place ;  a  very  dangerous 
flat,  and  fatal,  where  the  carcasses  of  many  a  tall  ship  lie 
buried,  as  they  say,  if  my  gossip  report  be  an  honest  woman 
of  her  word. 

Sedan.  I  would  she  were  as  lying  a  gossip  in  that,  as 
ever  knapped  ginger,  or  made  her  neighbors  believe  she  wept 
for  the  death  of  a  third  husband.  But  it  is  true, —  without 
any  slips  of  prolixity,  or  crossing  the  plain  highway  of  talk, 

— that  the  good  Antonio,  the  honest  Antonio, 0  that  I 

had  a  title  good  enough  to  keep  his  name  company, — 

Salar.    Come,  the  full  stop. 

Salan.  Ha, —  what  say'st  thou? — Why  the  end  is,  he 
hath  lost  a  ship. 

Salar.    I  would  it  might  prove  the  end  of  his  losses ! 

Salan.  Let  me  say  amen  betimes,  lest  the  devil  cross  my 
prayer  ;  for  here  he  comes  in  the  likeness  of  a  Jew. — 

Enter  Shylock. 

How  now,  Shylock  ?  what  news  among  the  merchants  t 

Shy.  You  knew,  none  so  well,  none  so  well  as  you,  of  my 
dauorhter's  fliffht. 

Salar.  That's  certain ;  I,  for  my  part,  knew  the  tailor 
that  made  the  wings  she  flew  withal. 

Salan.  And  Shylock,  for  his  own  part,  knew  the  bird  was 
fledged ;  and  then  it  is  the  complexion  of  them  all  to  leave 
the  dam. 

Shy.    She  is  damned  for  it. 

Salar.    That's  certain,  if  the  devil  may  be  her  judge. 

Shy.    My  own  flesh  and  blood  to  rebel ! 

Salan.    Out  upon  it,  old  carrion  !  rebels  it  at  these  years  ? 

Shy.    I  say,  my  daughter  is  my  flesh  and  blood. 

Salar.  There  is  more  diff"erence  between  thy  flesh  and 
hers,  than  between  jet  and  ivory  ;  more  between  your  bloods, 
than  there  is  between  red  wine  and  Rhenish. —  But  tell  us, 
do  you  hear  wliether  Antonio  have  had  any  loss  at  sea  or  no  ? 

Shy.    There  I  have    another  bad    match.     A  bankrupt, 


5-14  Ml-IRCHANT    OF    VENICE.       [Act  111. 

a  prodigal,  -vvlio  (lave  scarce  show  his  head  on  the  Rialto ; — 
a  bejrgar,  that  used  to  come  so  smug  upon  the  mart  1  — Let 
him  look  to  his  bond:  he  was  wont  to  call  me  usurer; — let 
him  look  to  his  bond.  lie  w^as  wont  to  lend  money  for  a 
Christian  courtesy: — let  him  look  to  his  bond. 

iSalar.  Why,  I  am  sure,  if  he  forfeit,  thou  wilt  not  take 
his  flesh ;  what's  that  good  for  ? 

Shij.  To  bait  fish  withal ;  if  it  will  feed  nothing  else,  it 
will  feed  my  revenge.  He  hath  disgraced  me,  and  hindered 
me  of  half  a  million ;  laughed  at  my  losses,  mocked  at  my 
gains,  scorned  my  nation,  thwarted  my  bargains,  cooled  my 
friends,  heated  mine  enemies ;  and  what's  his  reason  ?  I  am 
a  Jew.  Hath  not  a  Jew  eyes?  Hath  not  a  Jew  hands, 
organs,  dimensions,  senses,  affections,  passions  ?  fed  with  the 
same  food,  hurt  with  the  same  Aveapons,  subject  to  the  same 
diseases,  healed  by  the  same  means,  warmed  and  cooled  by 
the  same  winter  and  summer,  as  a  Christian  is?  If  you 
prick  us,  do  we  not  bleed  ?  If  you  tickle  us,  do  we  not 
laugh  ?  If  you  poison  us,  do  we  not  die  ?  And  if  you  wrong 
us,  shall  Ave  not  revenge  ?  If  we  are  like  you  in  the  rest, 
we  will  resemble  you  in  that.  If  a  Jew  wrong  a  Christian, 
what  is  his  humility  ?  revenge.  If  a  Christian  Avrong  a  Jew, 
what  should  his  suiferance  be  by  Christian  example  ?  why, 
revenge.  The  villany  you  teach  me,  I  will  execute  ;  and  it 
shall  go  hard,  but  I  Avill  better  the  instruction. 

Enter  a  Servant, 

Serv.  Gentlemen,  my  master  Antonio  is  at  his  house,  and 
desires  to  speak  with  you  both. 

Salar.    We  have  been  up  and  down  to  seek  him. 

Enter  Tubal. 

Salan.  Here  comes  another  of  the  tribe  ;  a  third  cannot 
be  matched,  unless  the  devil  himself  turn  Jew. 

[Exeunt  Salan.,  Salar.  and  Servant. 

Shy.  How  now.  Tubal,  what  news  from  Genoa?  Hast 
thou  found  my  daughter  ? 

Tuh.  I  often  came  where  I  did  hear  of  her,  but  cannot 
find  her. 

SJiy.  Why  there,  there,  there,  there  !  A  diamond  gone, 
cost  me  two  thousand  ducats  in  Frankfort !  The  curse  never 
fell  upon  our  nation  till  now ;  I  never  felt  it  till  now'. — Two 
thousand  ducats  in  that ;  and  other  precious,  precious  jewels. 
• — I  would  my  daughter  were  dead  at  my  foot,  and  the 
jewels  in  her  ear !  'Would  she  were  hearsed  at  my  foot, 
and  the  ducats  in  her  coffin  !     No  ncAvs  of  them  ?  — Why, 


-I't 


?   ''A    &JP     T 


t^  ,-3^  .^>*i«>  ^f-i 


I 


fuEf.Al- 


ActHI.]        merchant   of   VENICE  515 

so;  —  and  I  know  not  what's  spent  in  the  search.  Why, 
thou  loss  upon  loss !  the  thief  gone  with  so  much,  and  so 
much  to  find  the  thief;  and  no  satisfaction,  no  revenge;  nor 
no  ill  luck  stirring  but  what  lights  o'  my  shoulders;  no 
sighs,  but  o'  my  breathing ;  no  tears,  but  o'  my  shedding. 

Tub.  Yes,  other  men  have  ill  luck  too.  Antonio,  as  I 
heard  in  Genoa, — 

Shy.    What,  what,  what  ?     Ill  luck,  ill  luck  ? 

Tub.  — hath  an  argosy  cast  away,  coming  from  Tripolis. 

Shy.  I  thank  God,  I  thank  God  ! — Is  it  true  ?  is  it  true  ? 

Tub.  I  spoke  with  some  of  the  sailors  that  escaped  the 
wreck. 

Shy.  I  thank  thee,  good  Tubal. — Good  news,  good  news! 
Ha  !  ha  !  — Where  ?     In  Genoa  ? 

Tub.  Your  daughter  spent  in  Genoa,  as  I  heard,  one 
night,  fourscore  ducats. 

Sliy.    Thou  stickest  a  dagger  in  me. 1  shall  never  see 

my  gold  again.  Fourscore  ducats  at  a  sitting  !  Fourscore 
ducats  ! 

Tub.  Thei-e  came  divers  of  Antonio's  creditors  in  my 
company  to  Venice,  that  swear  he  cannot  choose  but  break. 

Shy.  I  am  very  glad  of  it ;  I'll  plague  him ;  I'll  torture 
him  ;  I  am  glad  of  it. 

Tub.  One  of  them  showed  me  a  ring,  that  he  had  of  your 
daughter  for  a  monkey. 

Shy.  Out  upon  her  !  Thou  torturest  me.  Tubal.  It  was 
my  turquoise ;  I  had  it  of  Leah,  when  I  was  a  bachelor.  I 
would  not  have  given  it  for  a  wilderness  of  monkeys. 

Tub.    But  Antonio  is  certainly  undone. 

Shy.  Nay,  that's  true,  that's  very  true.  Go,  Tubal,  fee 
me  an  officer ;  bespeak  him  a  fortnight  before.  I  will  have 
the  heart  of  him,  if  he  forfeit ;  for  were  he  out  of  Venice, 
I  can  make  what  merchandise  I  will.  Go,  go.  Tubal,  and 
meet  me  at  our  synagogue ;  go,  good  Tubal ;  at  our  syna- 
gogue, Tubal.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.     Belmont.     A  Room  in  Portia's  House. 

Enter  Bassanio,  Portia,  Gratiano,  Nerissa,  and  Attend 
ants.      The  Caskets  are  set  out. 

Por.    I  pray  you  tarry ;  pause  a  day  or  two, 
Before  you  hazard ;  for,  in  choosing  wrong, 
I  lose  your  company ;  therefore,  forbear  a  while. 
There's  something  tells  me  (but  it  is  not  love) 
I  would  not  lose  you ;  and  you  know,  yourself, 

Vol.  I.  — 30  2v* 


546  MEFv  CHANT   OF   VENICE.        [Act  Til 

Hate  counsels  not  in  such  a  quality ; 
But  lest  you  should  not  understand  me  well, 
(And  yet  a  maiden  hath  no  tongue  but  thought,) 
I  Avould  detain  you  here  some  month  or  two, 
Before  you  venture  for  me.     I  could  teach  you 
How  to  choose  right,  but  then  I  am  forsworn ; 
So  will  I  never  be ;  so  may  you  miss  me ; 
But  if  you  do,  you'll  make  me  wish  a  sin. 
That  I  had  been  forsworn.     Beshrew  your  eyes, 
They  have  o'erlooked  me,  and  divided  me; 

One  half  of  me  is  yours,  the  other  half  yours, 

Mine  own,  I  would  say ;  but  if  mine,  then  yours, 

And  so  all  yours  ;  0  !  these  naughty  times 

Put  bars  between  the  owners  and  their  rights, 

And  so,  though  yours,  not  yours.  —  Prove  it  so, 

Let  fortune  go  to  hell  for  it,  —  not  I. 

I  speak  too  long ;  but  'tis  to  peize  the  time ; 

To  eke  it,  and  to  draw  it  out  in  length, 

To  stay  you  from  election.  .1 

Bass.  Let  me  choose. 

For  as  I  am,  I  live  upon  the  rack. 

Por.    Upon  the  rack,  Bassanio  ?     Then  confess 
What  treason  there  is  mingled  with  your  love. 

Bass.    None,  but  that  ugly  treason  of  mistrust, 
Which  makes  me  fear  the  enjoying  of  my  love. 
There  may  as  well  be  amity  and  life 
'Tween  snow  and  fire,  as  treason  and  my  love. 

JPor.    Ay,  but,  I  fear,  you  speak  upon  the  rack, 
Where  men  enforced  do  speak  any  thing. 

Bass.    Promise  me  life,  and  111  confess  the  truth 

Por.    Well,  then,  confess,  and  live. 

Bass.  Confess,  and  love, 

Had  been  the  very  sum  of  my  confession. 
0  happy  torment,  when  my  torturer 
Doth  teach  me  answers  for  deliverance  ! 
But  let  me  to  my  fortune  and  the  caskets. 

Por.    Away  then ;  I'm  locked  in  one  of  them ; 
If  you  do  love  me,  you  will  find  me  out. — 
Nerissa,  and  the  rest,  stand  all  aloof. — 
Let  music  sound,  while  he  doth  make  his  choice; 
Then,  if  he  lose,  he  makes  a  swan-like  end, 
Fading  m  music.     That  the  comparison 
May  stand  more  proper,  my  eye  shall  be  the  stream. 
And  watery  death-bed  for  him.     He  may  win ; 
And  what  is  music  then  !     Then  music  is 
Even  as  the  flourish  when  true  subjects  bow 


Act  III]       31 ERCH  ANT  OF  VENICE.  547 

To  a  new-crowned  monarch ;  such  it  is, 

As  are  those  dulcet  sounds  in  break  of  day, 

That  creep  into  the  dreaming  bridegi'oom's  ear, 

And  summon  him  to  marriage.     Now  he  goes, 

With  no  less  presence,  but  with  much  more  love, 

Than  young  Alcides,  when  he  did  redeem 

The  virgin-tribute  paid  by  howling  Troy 

To  the  sea-monster.     I  stand  for  sacrifice. 

The  rest  aloof  ai'e  the  Dardanian  wives. 

With  bleared  visages,  come  foi-th  to  view 

The  issue  of  the  exploit.     Go,  Hercules, 

Live  thou,  I  live.  —  With  much,  much  more  dismay 

I  view  the  fight,  than  thou  that  mak'st  the  fray. 

Music,  whilst  Bassanio  comments  on  the  Caskets  to  him%elf. 

SONG. 

1.  Tell  me,  where  is  fane?/  bred, 

Or  in  the  heart,  or  in  the  liead? 
Sow  begot,  hoio  nourished? 
Reply,  reply. 

2.  It  is  engendered  in  the  eyes. 
With  gazing  fed ;  and  fancy  dies 
In  ^he  cradle  ivhere  it  lies. 

Let  us  all  ring  fancy's  knell ; 
I'll  begin  it, Ding,  dong,  bell.    ' 

All.  Ding,  dong,  bell. 

Bass.    So  may  the  outward  shows  be  least  themselves: 
The  world  is  still  deceived  with  ornament. 
In  law,  what  plea  so  tainted  and  corrupt. 
But,  being  seasoned  with  a  gracious  A^oice, 
Obscures  the  show  of  evil  ?     In  religion. 
What  damned  error,  but  some  sober  brow 
Will  bless  it,  and  approve  it  with  a  text, 
Hiding  the  grossness  with  fair  ornament  ? 
There  is  no  vice  so  simple,  but  assumes 
Some  mark  of  virtue  on  his  outward  parts. 
How  many  cowards,  whose  hearts  are  all  as  false 
As  stairs  of  sand,  wear  yet  upon  their  chins 
The  beards  of  Hercules,  and  frowning  Mars ; 
Who,  inward   searched,  have  livers  white  as  milk  ! 
And  these  assume  but  valor's  excrement, 
To  render  them  redoubted.     Look  on  beauty. 
And  you  shall  see  'tis  purchased  by  the  weight; 


548  M  E  R  C  H  A  N  T   0  F   V  E  N I C  E  [Act  III 

Which  therein  -works  a  miracle  in  nature, 

Making  them  lightest  that  wear  most  of  it. 

So  are  those  crisped,  snaky,  golden  locks, 

Which  make  such  wanton  gamhols  with  the  wind, 

Upon  supposed  fairness,  often  known 

To  be  the  dowry  of  a  second  head, 

The  skull  that  bred  them,  in  the  sepulchre. 

Thus  ornament  is  but  the  gilded  shore 

To  a  most  dangerous  sea ;  the  beauteous  scarf 

Veiling  an  Indian  beauty ;  in  a  word. 

The  seeming  truth  which  cunning  times  put  on 

To  entrap  the  wisest.     Tlierefore,  thou  gaudy  gold 

Hard  food  for  Midas,  I  will  none  of  thee ; 

Nor  none  of  thee,  thou  pale  and  common  drudge 

'Tween  man  and  man ;  but  thou,  thou  meagre  lead, 

Which  rather  threat'nest,  than  dost  promise  aught. 

Thy  paleness  moves  me  more  than  eloquence. 

And  here  choose  I.     Joy  be  the  consequence  ! 

Por\    How  all  the  other  passions  fleet  to  air. 
As  doubtful  thoughts,  and  rash-embraced  despair, 
And  shuddering  fear,  and  green-eyed  jealousy. 

0  love,  be  moderate,  allay  thy  ecstasy. 

In  measure  rain  thy  joy,  scant  this  excess ; 

1  feel  too  much  thy  blessing ;  make  it  less, 
For  fear  I  surfeit !  » 

BasH.  What  find  I  here? 

\_Opening  the  leaden  casket 
JFair  Portia's  counterfeit  ?     What  demi-god 
Hath  come  so  near  creation  ?     IMove  these  eyes  ? 
Or  whether,  riding  on  the  balls  of  mine, 
Seem  they  in  motion  ?     Here  are  severed  lips, 
Parted  with  sugar  breath  ;  so  sweet  a  bar 
Should  sunder  such  sweet  friends.     Here  in  her  hairs 
The  painter  plays  the  spider,  and  hath  woven 
A  golden  mesh  to  entrap  the  hearts  of  men. 
Faster  than  gnats  in  cobwebs.     But  her  eyes, — 
How  could  he  see  to  do  them  ?     Having  made  one, 
Methinks  it  should  have  power  to  steal  both  his, 
And  leave  itself  unfurnished.     Yet  look,  how  far 
The  substance  of  my  praise  doth  wrong  this  shadcw 
In  underprizing  it,  so  far  this  shadow 
Doth  limp  behind  the  substance.  —  Here's  the  scrol], 
The  continent  and  summary  of  my  fortune. 

You  that  cJioose  not  by  the  view, 
Chance  as  fair,  and  choose  as  true ! 


Act  III.]       MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  54t' 

Since  tJiis  fortune  falls  to  you, 
Be  content  and  seek  no  new. 
If  you  he  well  pleased  with  this, 
And  hold  your  fortune  for  your  bliss. 
Turn  you  where  your  lady  is. 
And  claim  her  with  a  loving  kiss. 

A  gentle  scroll.     Fail'  lady,  by  your  leave !      [Kissing  her 

I  come  by  note,  to  give,  and  to  receive. 

Like  one  of  two  contending  in  a  pi-ize, 

That  thinks  he  hath  done  well  in  people's  eyes, 

Hearing  applause,  and  universal  shout, 

Giddy  in  spirit,  still  gazing,  in  a  doubt 

Whether  those  peals  of  praise  be  his  or  no ; 

So,  thrice  fair  lady,  stand  I,  even  so ; 

As  doubtful  whether  what  I  see  be  true. 

Until  confirmed,  signed,  ratified  by  you. 

Por.    You  see  me,  lord  Bassanio,  where  I  stand, 
Such  as  I  am.     Though,  for  myself  alone, 
I  would  not  be  ambitious   in  my  wish, 
To  wish  myself  much  better ;  yet  for  you, 
I  would  be  trebled  twenty  times  myself; 
A  thousand  times  more  fair,  ten  thousand  times 
More  rich ; 

That  only  to  stand  high  on  your  account, 
I  might  in  virtues,  beauties,  livings,  friends, 
Exceed  account ;  but  the  full  sura  of  me 
Is  sum  of  something ;  which,  to  term  in  gross. 
Is  an  unlessoned  girl,  unschooled,  unpractised; 
Happy  in  this,  she  is  not  yet  so  old 
But  she  may  learn ;  happier  than  this. 
She  is  not  bred  so  dull  but  she  can  learn; 
Happiest  of  all,  is,  that  her  gentle  spirit 
Commits  itself  to  yours  to  be  directed. 
As  from  her  lord,  her  governor,  her  king. 
Myself,  and  what  is  mine,  to  you,  and  yours 
Is  now  converted.     But  now  I  was  the  lord 
Of  this  fair  mansion,  master  of  my  servants, 
Queen  o'er  myself;  and  even  now,  but  now. 
This  house,  these  servants,  and  this  same  myself, 
Are  yours,  my  lord ;  I  give  them  with  this  ring ; 
Which  when  you  part  from,  lose,  or  give  away, 
Let  it  presage  the  ruin  of  your  love. 
And  be  my  vantage  to  exclaim  on  you. 

Bass.    Madam,  you  have  bereft  me  of  all  words. 
Only  my  blood  speaks  to  you  in  my  veins; 


550  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE        [Act  in 

And  there  is  sucli  confusion  in  my  powers, 
As,  after  some  oration  fairly  spoke 
By  a  beloved  prince,  there  doth  appear 
Aniong  the  buzzing,  pleased  multitude; 
Where  every  something,  being  blent  together, 
Turns  to  a  wild  of  nothing,  save  of  joy, 
Expressed,  and  not  expressed.     But  when  this  ring 
Parts  from  this  finger,  then  parts  life  from  hence; 
0,  then  be  bold  to  say,  B'assanio's  dead. 

Ner.    My  lord  and  lady,  it  is  now  our  time, 
That  have  stood  by,  and  seen  our  wishes  prosper. 
To  cry.  Good  joy ;   good  joy,  my  lord,  and  lady  I 

Gra.    My  lord  Bassanio,  and  my  gentle  lady, 
I  wish  you  all  the  joy  that  you  can  wish; 
For,  I  am  sure,  you  can  wish  none  from  me ; 
And,  when  your  honors  mean  to  solemnize 
The  bargain  of  your  faith,  I  do  beseech  you. 
Even  at  that  time  I  may  be  married  too. 

Bass.    With  all  my  heart,  so  thou  canst  get  a  wife. 

Gra.    I  thank  your  lordship;  you  have  got  me  one. 
My  eyes,  my  lord,  can  look  as  swift  as  yours. 
You  saw  the  mistress,  I  beheld  the  maid ; 
You  loved,  I  loved  ;  for  intermission 
No  more  pertains  to  me,  my  lord,  than  you. 
Your  fortune  stood  upon  the  caskets  there ; 
And  so  did  mine  too,  as  the  matter  falls. 
For,  wooing  here,  until  I  sweat  again ; 
And  swearing,  till  my  very  roof  was  dry 
With  oaths  of  love  ;  at  last, —  if  promise  last, — 
I  got  a  promise  of  this  fair  one  here. 
To  have  her  love,  provided  that  your  fortune 
Achieved  her  mistress. 

Por.  Is  this  true,  Nerissa? 

Ner.    Madam,  it  is,  so  you  stand  pleased  withal. 

Bass.    And  do  you,  Gratiano,  mean  good  faith? 

Gra.    Yes,   'faith,  my  lord. 

Bass.    Our  feast  shall  be  much  honored  in  your  marriage. 

Gra.    We'll  play  with  them,  the  first  boy  for  a  thousand 
ducats. 

Ner.    What,  and  stake  down  ? 

Gra.    No ;  we  shall  ne'er  win  at  that  sport,  and  stake 

down. 

But  who  comes  here?     Lorenzo,  and  his  infidel? 
What,  and  my  old  Venetian  friend,   Salerio  ? 


Act  III]       MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  551 

Enter  Lorenzo,  Jessica,  and  Salerio. 

Bass.    Lorenzo,  and  Salerio,  welcome  hither; 
If  that  the  youth  of  my  new  interest  here 
Have  power  to  bid  you  welcome. — By  your  leave, 
I  bid  my  very  friends  and  countrymen. 
Sweet  Portia,  welcome. 

Por.  So  do  I,  my  lord ; 

They  are  entirely  welcome. 

Lor.    I  thank  your  honor.     For  my  part,  my  lord, 
My  purpose  was  not  to  have  seen  you  here ; 
But  meeting  with  Salerio  by  the  way, 
He  did  entreat  me,  past  all  saying  nay, 
To  come  with  him  along. 

Sale.  I  did,  my  lord, 

And  I  have  reason  for  it.     Seignior  Antonio 
Commends  him  to  you.  \_G-ives  Bassanio  a  letter. 

Bass.  Ere  I  ope  his  letter, 

I  pray  you,  tell  me  how  my  good  friend  doth. 

Sale.    Not  sick,  my  lord,  unless  it  be  in  mind 
Nor  well,  unless  in  mind.     His  letter  there 
Will  show  you  his  estate. 

Cira.    Nerissa,  cheer  yon  stranger ;  bid  her  welcome. 
Your  hand,  Salerio.     What's  the  news  from  Venice  ? 
How  doth  that  royal  merchant,  good  Antonio  ? 
I  know,  he  will  be  glad  of  our  success ; 
We  ai'e  the  Jasons,  we  have  won  the  fleece. 

Sale.    Would  you  had  won  the  fleece  that  he  hath  lost 

Por.    There  are  some  shrewd  contents  in  yon  same  paper, 
That  steal  the  color  from  Bassanio's  cheek. 
Some  dear  friend  dead;  else  nothing  in  the  world 
Could  turn  so  much  the  constitution 
Of  any  constant  man.     What,  worse  and  worse?  — 
With  leave,  Bassanio ;  I  am  half  yourself. 
And  I  must  freely  have  the  half  of  any  thing 
That  this  same  paper  brings  you. 

Bass.  0  sweet  Portia, 

Here  are  a  few  of  the  unpleasant'st  words 
That  ever  blotted  paper !     Gentle  lady. 
When  I  did  first  impart  my  love  to  you, 
I  freely  told  you,  all  the  wealth  I  had 
Ran  in  my  veins ;  I  was  a  gentleman ; 
And  then  I  told  you  true ;  and  yet,  dear  lady. 
Rating  myself  at  nothing,  you  shall  see 
How  much  I  was  a  braggart.     When  I  told  you 
My  state  was  nothing,  I  should  then  have  told  you 


552  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.       [Act  111 

That   I  was  worse  than  notliing  ;  for,  indeed, 

I  have  engaged  myself  to  a  dear  friend, 

Engaged  my  friend  to  his  mere  enemy, 

To  "feed  my  means.     Here  is  a  letter,  lady, 

The  paper  as  the  body  of  my  friend. 

And  every  "word  in  it  a  gaping  wound, 

Issuing  life-blood.  —  But  is  it  true,   Salerio  ? 

Have  all  his  ventures  failed?     AVhat,  not  one  hit? 

From  Tripolis,  from  Mexico,  and  England, 

From  Lisbon,  Barbary,  and  India? 

And  not  one  vessel  'scape  the  dreadful  touch 

Of  merchant-marring  rocks? 

Sale.  Not  one,  my  lord. 

Besides,  it  should  appear,  that  if  he  had 
The  present  money  to  discharge  the  Jew, 
He  would  not  take  it.     Never  did  I  know 
A  creature,  that  did  bear  the  shape  of  man, 
So  keen  and  greedy  to  confound  a  man. 
He  plies  the  duke  at  morning,  and  at  night; 
And  doth  impeach  the  freedom  of  the  state. 
If  they  deny  him  justice.     Twenty  merchants, 
The  duke  himself,  and  the  magnificoes 
Of  greatest  port,  have  all  persuaded  with  him ; 
But  none  can  drive  him  from  the  envious  plea 
Of  forfeiture,  of  justice,  and  his  bond. 

Jes.    When  I  was  with  him,  I  have  heard  him  swear, 
To  Tubal,  and  to  Chus,  his  countrymen. 
That  he  Avould  rather  have  Antonio's  flesh, 
Than  twenty  times  the  value  of  the  sum 
That  he  did  owe  him  ;  and  I  know,  my  lord, 
If  law,  authority,  and  pow'er  deny  not. 
It  will  go  hard  with  poor  Antonio. 

Por.    Is  it  your  dear  friend,  that  is  thus  in  trouble  ? 

Bass.    The  dearest  friend  to  me,  the  kindest  man. 
The  best  conditioned  and  unwearied  spirit 
In  doing  courtesies  ;  and  one  in  whom 
The  ancient  Roman  honor  more  appears, 
Than  any  that  draws  breath  in  Italy. 

Por.    Wliat  sum  owes  he  the  Jew  ? 

Pass.    For  me,  three  thousand  ducats. 

Por.  What,  no  more  ? 

Pay  him  six  thousand,  and  deface  the  bond; 
Double  six  thousand,  and  then  treble  that. 
Before  a  friend  of  this  description 
Should  lose  a  hair  through  Bassanio's  fault. 
First,  go  w"ith  me  to  church,  and  call  me  wife : 


Act  III]       MERCHANT   OF  VENICE.  553 

And  then  away  to  Venice  to  your  friend ; 
For  never  shall  you  lie  by  Portia's  side 
With  an  unquiet  soul.     You  shall  have  gold 
To  pay  the  petty  debt  twenty  times  over ; 
When  it  is  paid,  bring  your  true  friend  along ; 
My  maid  Nerissa  and  myself,  mean  time. 
Will  live  as  maids  and  widows.      Come,  away; 
For  you  shall  hence  upon  your  wedding-day. 
Bid  your  friends  Avelcome,  show  a  merry  cheer ; 
Since  you  are  dear  bought,  I  will  love  you  dear. — 
But  let  me  hear  the  letter  of  your  friend. 

Bass.  [Reads.]  Sweet  Bassanio,  my  ships  have  all  mis- 
carried, my  creditors  grow  cruel,  my  estate  is  very  low,  my 
bond  to  the  Jeiv  is  forfeit ;  and  since,  in  paying  it,  it  is  im- 
possible I  should  live,  all  debts  are  cleared  between  you  and 
I,  if  I  might  but  see  you  at  my  death :  notwithstanding,  use 
your  pleasure ;  if  your  love  do  not  persuade  you  to  come^ 
let  not  my  letter. 

Por.    0  love,  despatch  all  business,  and  be  gone. 

Bass.    Since  I  have  your  good  leave  to  go  away, 
I  will  make  haste ;  but,  till  I  come  again, 
No  bed  shall  e'er  be  guilty  of  my  stay, 

Nor  rest  be  interposer  'twixt  us  twain.         [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.     Venice.     A  Street. 
Unter  Shtlock,  Salanio,  Antonio,  and  Jailer. 

Shy.    Jailer,  look  to  him.  —  Tell  not  me  of  mercy ; — 
This  is  the  fool  that  lends  out  money  gratis. — 
Jailer,  look  to  him. 

Ant.  Hear  me  yet,  good  Shylock. 

Shy.    I'll  have  my  bond  ;  speak  not  against  my  bond; 
I  have  sworn  an  oath,  that  I  will  have  my  bond. 
Thou  call'dst  me  dog,  before  thou  hadst  a  cause: 
But,  since  I  am  a  dog,  beware  my  fangs ; 
The  duke  shall  grant  me  justice. — I  do  Avonder, 
Thou  naughty  jailer,  that  thou  art  so  fond 
To  come  abroad  with  him  at  his  request. 

Ant.    I  pray  thee,  hear  me  speak. 

Shy.    I'll  have  my  bond;  I  will  not  hear  thee  speak; 
I'll  have  my  bond;  and  therefore  speak  no  more. 
I'll  not  be  made  a  soft  and  dull-eyed  fool. 
To  shake  the  head,  relent,  and  sigh,  and  yield 
To  Christian  intercessors.     Follow  not ; 
I'll  have  no  speaking;  I  will  have  my  bond. 

IJSzit  Shylock 

2w 


554  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.       f Act  III 

Salan.    It  is  the  most  impenetrable  cur 
That  ever  kept  Avith  men. 

A}it.  L^'t  him  alone  ; 

I'll  follow  him  no  more  with  bootless  prayers. 
He  seeks  my  life;  his  reason  well  I  know; 
I  oft  delivered  from  his  forfeitures 
jNIany  that  have  at  times  made  moan  to  me ; 
Therefore  he  hates  me. 

Salan.  I  am  sure,  the  duke 

Will  never  grant  this  forfeiture  to  hold, 

Ant.    The  duke  cannot  deny  the  course  of  law ; 
For  the  commodity  that  strangers  have 
With  us  in  Venice,  if  it  be  denied, 
Will  much  impeach  the  justice  of  the  state ; 
Since  that  the  trade  and  profit  of  the  city 
Consisteth  of  all  nations.     Therefore,  go ; 
These  griefs  and  losses  have  so  'bated  me, 
That  I  shall  hardly  spare  a  pound  of  flesh 

To-morrow  to  my  bloody  creditor. 

Well,  jailer,  on. —  Pray  God,  Bassanio  come 

To  see  me  pay  his  debt,  and  then  I  care  not !     \Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.    Belmont.    A  Room  in  Portia's  House.   Enter 
Portia,  Nerissa,  Lorenzo,  Jessica,  and  Balthazar. 

Lor.    Madam,  although  I  speak  it  in  your  presence, 
You  have  a  noble  and  a  true  conceit 
Of  godlike  amity ;  which  appears  most  strongly 
In  bearing  thus  the  absence  of  your  lord. 
But,  if  you  knew  to  whom  you  show  this  honor, 
How  true  a  gentleman  you  send  relief. 
How  dear  a  lover  of  my  lord  your  husband, 
I  know,  you  would  be  prouder  of  the  work, 
Thau  customary  bounty  can  enforce  you. 

Por.    I  never  did  repent  for  doing  good, 
Nor  shall  not  now ;  for  in  companions 
That  do  converse  and  waste  the  time  together,    . 
Whose  souls  do  bear  an  equal  yoke  of  love. 
There  must  be  needs  a  like  proportion 
Of  lineaments,  of  manners,  and  of  spirit ; 
Which  makes  me  think,  that  this  Antonio, 
Being  the  bosom  lover  of  my  lord. 
Must  needs  be  like  my  lord.     If  it  be  so, 
How  little  is  the  cost  I  have  bestowed 
In  purchasing  the  semblance  of  my  soul 
From  out  the  state  of  hellish  cruelty ! 


Act  III.]       MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  555 

This  comes  too  near  the  praising  of  myself! 

Therefore,  no  more  of  it :  hear  other  things. 

Lorenzo,  I  commit  into  your  hands 

The  husbandry  and  manage  of  my  house, 

Until  my  lord's  return ;  for  mine  own  part, 

I  have  toward  Heaven  breathed  a  secret  vow, 

To  live  in  prayer  and  contemplation. 

Only  attended  by  Nerissa  here. 

Until  her  husband  and  my  lord's  return. 

There  is  a  monastery  two  miles  off, 

And  there  we  will  abide.     I  do  desire  you 

Not  to  deny  this  imposition ; 

The  which  my  love,  and  some  necessity, 

Now  lays  upon  you. 

Lor.  Madam,  with  all  my  heart 

I  shall  obey  you  in  all  fair  commands. 

Por.    My  people  do  already  know  my  mind. 
And  will  acknowledge  you  and  Jessica, 
In  place  of  lord  Bassanio  and  myself. 
So  fare  you  well,  till  we  shall  meet  again. 

Lor.    Fair  thoughts,  and  happy  hours,  attend  on  you. 

Jes.    I  wish  your  ladyship  all  heart's  content. 

Por.    I  thank  you  for  your  wish,  and  am  well  pleased 
To  wish  it  back  on  you;  fare  you  w^ell,  Jessica. — 

\_Exeunt  Jessica  and  Lorenzo. 
Now,  Balthazar, 

As  I  have  ever  found  thee  honest,  true. 
So  let  me  find  thee  still.     Take  this  same  letter, 
And  use  thou  all  the  endeavor  of  a  man. 
In  speed  to  Padua ;  see  thou  render  this 
Into  my  cousin's  hand,  doctor  Ballario ; 
And,  look,  what  notes  and  garments  he  doth  give  thee, 
Bring  them,  I  pray  thee,  w"ith  imagined  speed 
Unto  the  tranect,  to  the  common  ferry 
Which  trades  to  Venice. — Waste  no  time  in  words. 
But  get  thee  gone.     I  shall  be  there  before  thee. 

Balth.    Madam,  I  go  with  all  convenient  speed.      [Exit, 

Por.    Come  on,  Nerissa;  I  have  work  in  hand 
That  you  yet  know  not  of.     We'll  see  our  husbands, 
Before  they  think  of  us. 

Ner.  Shall  they  see  us? 

Por.    They  shall,  Nerissa;  but  in  such  a  habit, 
That  they  shall  think  we  are  accomplished 
With  what  we  lack.     I'll  hold  thee  any  wagor, 
When  we  are  both  accoutred  like  young  men, 
m  prove  the  prettier  fellow  of  the  two. 


556  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.       [Act  IH 

Anil  -woar  my  dagger  with  the  braver  grace ; 

And  speak,  between  the  change  of  man  and  boy, 

^Vith  a  reed  voice ;  and  turn  two  mincing  steps 

Into  a  manly  stride;  and  speak  of  frays, 

Like  a  fine  bragging  youth  ;  and  tell  quaint  lies, 

How  honorable  ladies  sought  my  love, 

Which  I  denying,  they  fell  sick  and  died : 

I  could  not  do  withal. — Then  I'll  repent, 

And  wish,  for  all  that,  that  I  had  not  killed  them. 

And  twenty  of  these  puny  lies  I'll  tell. 

That  men  shall  swear,  I  have  discontinued  school 

Above  a  twelvemonth. — I  have  within  my  mind 

A  thousand  raw  tricks  of  these  bragging  Jacks, 

Which  I  will  practise. 

Ner.  Why,  shall  we  turn  to  men? 

Por.    Fie ;  what  a  question's  that. 
If  thou  wert  near  a  lewd  interpreter  ? 
But  come,  I'll  tell  thee  all  my  whole  device 
When  I  am  in  my  coach,  which  stays  for  us 
At  the  park  gate ;  and  therefore  haste  away, 
For  we  must  measure  twenty  miles  to-day.  \^ExeunU 


SCENE  V.     The  same.     A  Garden. 
Enter  Launcelot  a^id  Jessica. 

Laim.  Yes,  truly ;  for,  look  you,  the  sins  of  the  father 
are  to  be  laid  upon  the  children ;  therefore,  I  promise  you, 
I  fear  you.  I  was  always  plain  with  you,  and  so  now  I 
speak  my  agitation  of  the  matter.  Therefore,  be  of  good 
cheer ;  for,  truly,  I  think,  you  are  damned.  There  is  but 
one  hope  in  it  that  can  do  you  any  good ;  and  that  is  but  a 
kind  of  bastard  hope  neither. 

Jes.    And  what  hope  is  that,  I  pray  thee  ? 

Laun.  Marry,  you  may  partly  hope  that  your  father  got 
you  not,  that  you  are  not  the  Jew's  daughter. 

Jes.  That  were  a  kind  of  bastard  hope,  indeed;  so  the 
sins  of  my  mother  should  be  visited  upon  me. 

Laun.  Truly  then  I  fear  you  are  damned  both  by  father 
and  mother ;  thus  when  I  shun  Scylla,  your  father,  I  fall 
into  Charybdis,  your  mother.    Well,  you  are  gone  both  ways. 

Jes.  I  shall  be  saved  by  my  husband ;  he  hath  made  me 
a  Christian. 

Laun.  Truly,  the  more  to  blame  he ;  we  were  Christians 
enough  before ;  e'en  as  many  as  could  well  live,  one  by 
another.     This  making  of  Christians  will  raise  the  price  of 


Act  III.]       M]:Pt CHANT   OF   VENICE.  557 

hogs ;  if  we  grow  all  to  be  pork-eaters,  we  shall  not  have  a 
rasher  on  the  coals  for  money. 

Enter  Lorenzo. 

Jes.  I'll  tell  my  husband,  Launcelot,  what  you  say ;  here 
he  comes. 

Lor.  I  shall  grow  jealous  of  you  shortly,  Launcelot,  if 
you  thus  get  my  wife  into  corners. 

Jes.  Nay,  you  need  not  fear  us,  Lorenzo ;  Launcelot  and 
I  are  out.  He  tells  me  flatly,  there  is  no  mercy  for  me  in 
heaven,  because  I  am  a  Jew's  daughter ;  and  he  says  you 
are  no  good  member  of  the  commonwealth ;  for,  in  convert- 
ing Jews  to  Christians,  you  raise  the  price  of  pork. 

Lor.  I  shall  answer  that  better  to  the  commonwealth, 
than  you  can  the  getting  up  of  the  negro's  belly.  The  Moor 
is  with  child  by  you,  Launcelot. 

Laun.  It  is  much,  that  the  Moor  should  be  more  than 
reason ;  but  if  she  be  less  than  an  honest  woman,  she  is, 
indeed,  more  than  I  took  her  for. 

Lor.  How  every  fool  can  play  upon  the  word  !  I  think, 
the  best  grace  of  wit  will  shortly  turn  into  silence ;  and  dis- 
course grow  commendable  in  none  only  but  parrots.  —  Go 
in,  sirrah ;  bid  them  prepare  for  dinner. 

Laun.    That  is  done,  sir ;  they  have  all  stomachs. 

Lor.  Goodly  lord,  what  a  wit-snapper  are  you !  Then 
bid  them  prepare  dinner. 

Laun.    That  is  done,  too,  sir ;  only,  cover  is  the  word. 

Lor.    Will  you  cover  then,  sir? 

Laun.    Not  so,  neither;  I  know  my  duty. 

Lor.  Yet  more  quarrelling  with  occasion !  Wilt  thou 
show  the  whole  wealth  of  thy  wit  in  an  instant  ?  I  pray 
thee,  understand  a  plain  man  in  his  plain  meaning.  Go  to 
thy  fellows ;  bid  them  cover  the  table,  serve  in  the  meat, 
and  we  will  come  in   to  dinner. 

Laun.  For  the  table,  sir,  it  shall  be  served  in ;  for  the 
meat,  sir,  it  shall  be  covered ;  for  your  coming  in  to  dinner, 
sir,  why,  let  it  be  as  humors  and  conceits  shall  govern. 

[Exit  Launcelot 

Lor.    0  dear  discretion,  how  his  words  are  suited ! 
The  fool  hath  planted  in  his  memoiy 
An  army  of  good  words ;  and  I  do  know 
A  many  fools,  that  stand  in  better  place. 
Garnished  like  him,  that  for  a  tricksy  word 
Defy  the  matter.     How  cheer'st  thou,  Jessica! 
And  now,  good  sweet,  say  thy  opinion ; 
How  dost  thou  like  the  lord  Bassanio's  wife? 
2w*  , 


558  MEKCH  ANT  OF  VENICE.        [Act  IV 

Jes.    Past  all  expressing.     It  is  very  meet, 
The  lord  Bassanio  live  an  upright  life  ; 
For,  having  such  a  blessing  in  his  lady. 
He  finds  the  joys  of  heaven  here  on  earth ; 
And,  if  on  earth  he  do  not  mean  it,  it 
Is  reason  he  should  never  come  to  heaven. 
Why,  if  two  gods  should  play  some  heavenly  match, 
And  on  the  wager  lay  two  earthly  women, 
And  Portia  one,  there  must  be  something  else 
Pawned  with  the  other ;  for  the  poor  rude  world 
Hath  not  her  felloAv. 

Lor.  Even  such  a  husband 

Hast  thou  of  me,  as  she  is  for  a  wife. 

Jes.    Nay,  but  ask  my  opinion  too  of  that. 

Lor.    I  will  anon ;  first  let  us  go  to  dinner. 

Jes.    Nay,  let  me  praise  you,  while  I  have  a  stomach. 

Lor.    No,  pray  thee  let  it  serve  for  table-talk; 
Then,  howsoe'er  thou  speak'st,  'mong  other  things 
I  shall  digest  it. 

Jes.  Well,  I'll  set  you  forth.  {Exeunt. 


ACT    IV. 

SCENE  I.     Venice.     A  Court  of  Justice. 

Enter  the  Duke,  the  Magnificoes ;  Antonio,  Bassanio, 
Gratiano,  Salarino,  Salanio,  and  others. 

Duke.    What,  is  Antonio  here  ? 

Aiit.    Ready,  so  please  your  grace. 

Luke.    I  am  sorry  for  thee ;  thou  art  come  to  answer 
A  stony  adversary,  an  inhuman  wretch 
Uncapable  of  pity,  void  and  empty 
From  any  di-am  of  mercy. 

A7it.  I  have  heard 

Your  grace  hath  ta'en  great  pains  to  qualify 
His  rigorous  course ;  but  since  he  stands  obdurate, 
And  that  no  lawful  means  can  carry  me 
Out  of  his  envy's  reach,  I  do  oppose 
My  patience  to  his  fury ;  and  am  armed 
To  suffer,  with  a  quietness  of  spirit. 
The  very  tyranny  and  rage  of  his. 

Dulce.    Go,  one,  and  call  the  Jew  into  the  court. 

Salan.    He's  ready  at  the  door;  he  comes,  my  lord. 


Act  TV.]       MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  559 

Enter  Shylock. 

Duhe.    Make  room,  and  let  him  stand  before  our  face.— 
Sliylock,  the  world  thinks,  and  I  think  so  too, 
That  thou  but  lead'st  this  fashion  of  thy  malice 
To  the  last  hour  of  act;  and  then,  'tis  thought, 
Thou'lt  show  thy  mercy,  and  remorse,  more  strange 
Than  is  thy  strange  apparent  cruelty; 
And  where  thou  now  exact'st  the  penalty, 
(Which  is  a  pound  of  this  poor  merchant's  flesh,) 
Thou  wilt  not  only  lose  the  forfeiture, 
But,  touched  with  human  gentleness  and  love, 
Forgive  a  moiety  of  the  principal ; 
Glancing  an  eye  of  pity  on  his  losses, 
That  have  of  late  so  huddled  on  his  back, 
Enough  to  press  a  royal  merchant  down. 
And  pluck  commiseration  of  his  state 
From  brassy  bosoms,  and  rough  hearts  of  flint. 
From  stubborn  Turks,  and  Tartars  never  trained 
To  ofiices  of  tender  courtesy. 
We  all  expect  a  gentle  answer,  Jew. 

Shy.    I  have  possessed  your  grace  of  Avhat  I  purpose. 
And  by  our  holy  Sabbath  have  I  sworn 
To  have  the  due  and  forfeit  of  my  bond. 
If  you  deny  it,  let  the  danger  light 
Upon  your  charter,  and  your  city's  freedom. 
You'll  ask  me  why  I  rather  choose  to  have 
A  weight  of  carrion  flesh,  than  to  receive 
Three  thousand  ducats.     I'll  not  ansAver  that : 
But  say  it  is  my  humor :  Is  it  answered  ? 
What  if  my  house  be  troubled  with  a  rat. 
And  I  be  pleased  to  give  ten  thousand  ducats 
To  have  it  baned  ?     What,  are  you  answered  yet  ? 
Some  men  there  are  love  not  a  gaping  pig ; 
Some,  that  are  mad,  if  they  behold  a  cat ; 
And  others,  when  the  bagpipe  sings  i'  the  nose, 
Cannot  contain  their  urine ;  for  afi'ection, 
Master  of  passion,  sways  it  to  the  mood 
Of  what  it  likes  or  loathes.     Now,  for  your  answer. 
As  there  is  no  firm  reason  to  be  rendered, 
Why  he  cannot  abide  a  gaping  pig ; 
Why  he,  a  harmless,  necessary  cat ; 
Why  he,  a  woollen  bagpipe ;  but  of  force 
Must  yield  to  such  inevitable  shame. 
As  to  off"end,  himself  being  offended ; 
So  can  I  give  no  reason,  nor  I  will  not, 


560  .MERCIIANT    OF    VENICE.       [Act  IV 

More  than  a  lodged  hate,  and  a  certain  loatliing 

I  bear  Antonio,  that  I  follow  thus 

A  losing  suit  against  him.     Are  you  answered  ? 

Bass.    This  is  no  answer,  thou  unfeeling  man, 
To  excuse  the  current  of  thy  cruelty. 

Shi/.    I  am  not  bound  to  please  thee  with  my  answer 

Bass.   Do  all  men  kill  the  things  they  do  not  love  ? 

Shi/.    Hates  any  man  the  thing  he  would  not  kill  ? 

Bass.    Every  offence  is  not  a  hate  at  first. 

Shi/.  What,  would'st  thou  have  a  serpent  sting  thee  twice  ? 

Ant.    I  pray  you,  think  you  question  with  the  Jew. 
You  may  as  well  go  stand  upon  the  beach, 
And  bid  the  main  flood  bate  his  usual  height ; 
You  may  as  well  use  question  with  the  wolf, 
Why  he  hath  made  the  ewe  bleat  for  the  lamb ; 
You  may  as  well  forbid  the  mountain  pines 
To  wag  their  high  tops,  and  to  make  no  noise, 
When  they  are  fretted  with  the  gusts  of  heaven ; 
You  may  as  well  do  any  thing  most  hard, 
As  seek  to  soften  that,  (than  Avhich  what's  harder?) 
His  Jewish  heart. — Therefore  I  do  beseech  you, 
Make  no  more  offers,  use  no  further  means, 
But,  with  all  brief  and  plain  conveniency, 
Let  me  have  judgment,  and  the  Jew  his  will. 

Bass.    For  thy  three  thousand  ducats  here  is  six. 

S?ii/.    If  every  ducat  in  six  thousand  ducats 
Were  in  six  parts,  and  every  part  a  ducat, 
I  would  not  draw  them ;  I  would  have  my  bond. 

Duke.  How  shalt  thou  hope  for  mercy,  rend'ring  none  ? 

Shi/.  What  judgment  shall  I  dread,  doing  no  wrong? 
You  have  among  jon  many  a  purchased  slave, 
Which,  like  your  asses,  and  your  dogs,  and  mules. 
You  use  in  abject  and  in  slavish  parts, 
Because  you  bought  them.  —  Shall  I  say  to  you, 
Let  them  be  free ;  marry  them  to  your  heirs  ? 
Why  sweat  they  under  burdens  ?     Let  their  beds 
Be  made  as  soft  as  yours,  and  let  their  palates 
Be  seasoned  with  such  viands  ?     You  will  answer, 
The  slaves  are  ours.  —  So  do  I  answer  you. 
The  pound  of  flesh,  which  I  demand  of  him, 
Is  dearly  bought ;   'tis  mine,  and  I  will  have  it. 
If  you  deny  me,  fie  upon  your  law ! 
There  is  no  force  in  the  decrees  of  Venice. 
I  stand  for  judgment :  answer ;  shall  I  have  it  ? 

Duke.    Upon  my  power  I  may  dismiss  this  court, 
Unless  Bellario,  a  learned  doctor, 


Act  IV.]        MEKCH ANT   OF   VENICE.  561 

Whom  I  have  sent  for  to  determine  this, 
Come  here  to-day. 

Salar.  My  lord,  here  stays  without 

A  messenger  with  letters  from  the  doctor. 
New  come  from  Padua. 

Duke.    Bring  us  the  letters ;  call  the  messenger, 

Bass.  Good  cheer,  Antonio  !    "What,  man  ?  courage  yet ! 
The  Jew  shall  have  my  flesh,  blood,  bones,  and  all. 
Ere  thou  shalt  lose  for  me  one  drop  of  blood. 

Ant.    I  am  a  tainted  wether  of  the  flock, 
Meetest  for  death ;  the  weakest  kind  of  fruit 
Drops  earliest  to  the  ground,  and  so  let  me. 
You  cannot  better  be  employed,  Bassanio, 
Than  to  live  still,  and  write  mine  epitaph. 

Enter  Nerissa.  dressed  like  a  Laioyers  Clerk. 

Duke.    Came  you  from  Padua,  from  Bellario? 

Ner.    From  both,  my  lord.     Bellario  greets  your  grace. 

\Presents  a  letter. 

Bass.    Why  dost  thou  whet  thy  knife  so  earnestly? 

Shi/.    To  cut  the  forfeiture  from  that  bankrupt  there. 

G-ra.    Not  on  thy  sole,  but  on  thy  soul,  harsh  Jew, 
Thou  mak'st  thy  knife  keen ;  but  no  metal  can. 
No,  not  the  hangman's  axe,  bear  half  the  keenness 
Of  thy  sharp  envy.     Can  no  prayers  pierce  thee? 

Shi/.    No,  none  thou  hast  wit  enough  to  make. 

Crra.    0,  be  thou  damned,  inexorable  dog ! 
And  for  thy  life  let  justice  be  accused. 
Thou  almost  mak'st  me  waver  in  my  faith, 
To  hold  opinion  with  Pythagoras, 
That  souls  of  animals  infuse  themselves 
Into  the  trunks  of  men.     Thy  currish  spirit. 
Governed  a  wolf,  who,  hanged  for  human  slaughter, 
Even  from  the  gallows  did  his  fell  soul  fleet, 
And,  whilst  thou  lay'st  in  thy  unhallowed  dam. 
Infused  itself  in  thee ;  for  thy  desires 
Are  wolfi.sh,  bloody,  starved,  and  ravenous. 

Shy.    Till  thou  canst  rail  the  seal  from  off  my  bon  1, 
Thou  but  offend'st  thy  lungs  to  speak  so  loud. 
Repair  thy  wit,  good  youth,  or  it  will  fall 
To  cureless  ruin. — I  stand  here  for  law. 

Duke.    This  letter  from  Bellario  doth  commend 
A  young  and  learned  doctor  to  our  court. — 
Where  is  he  ? 

Ner.  He  attendeth  here  hard  by, 

To  know  your  answer,  whether  you'll  admit  him. 

Vol.  I.  —  30 


S62  MERCHANT  OF   VENICE.        [Act  lY 

DuJce.    With  all  my  heart ;  some  three  or  four  of  you, 
Go,  give  him  courteous  conduct  to  this  place. — 
Meantime,  the  court  shall  hear  Bcllario's  letter. 

[Clerk  reads.]  Your  grace  shall  U7ider^tand,  that,  at  the 
receipt  of  your  letter,  I  am  very  sick ;  hut  in  the  instant 
that  your  messenger  came,  in  loving  visitation  was  with  me 
a  young  doctor  of  Rome ;  his  name  is  Balthasar.  I  ac- 
quainted him  with  the  cause  in  controversy  between  the  Jew 
and  Antonio  the  merchant;  ive  turned  o'er  many  hooks 
together  ;  he  is  furnished  with  my  opinion;  which,  bettered 
with  his  oivn  learning,  {the  greatness  whereof  I  cannot 
enough  commend,)  comes  -with  him,  at  my  importunity,  to 
fill  up  your  grace's  request  in  my  stead.  I  beseech  you,  let 
his  lack  of  years  be  no  impediment  to  let  him  lack  a  reverend 
estimation  ;  for  I  never  knew  so  young  a  body  with  so  old  a 
head.  I  leave  him  to  your  gracious  acceptance,  whose  trial 
shall  better  publish  his  commendation. 

Duke.  You  hear  the  learned  Bellario,  what  he  writes. 
And  here,  I  take  it,  is  the  doctor  come. — 

Enter  Portia,  dressed  like  a  Doctor  of  Laws. 

Give  me  your  hand.     Came  you  from  old  Bellario? 

For.    I  did,  my  lord. 

Duke.  You  are  welcome ;  take  your  place. 

Are  you  acquainted  with  the  difference 
That  holds  this  present  question  in  the  court? 

Por.   I  am  informed  thoroughly  of  the  cause. 
Which  is  the  merchant  here,  and  which  the  Jew? 

Duke.    Antonio  and  old  Shylock,  both  stand  forth. 

Por.    Is  your  name  Shylock? 

Shy.  Shylock  is  my  name. 

Por.    Of  a  strange  nature  is  the  suit  you  follow ; 
Yet  in  such  rule,  that  the  Venetian  law 
Cannot  impugn  you,  as  you  do  proceed  — 
You  stand  within  his  danger,  do  you  not?      [^To  Antonio. 

Ayit.    Ay,  so  he  says. 

Por.  Do  you  confess  the  bond? 

A7\t.    I  do. 

Por.  Then  must  the  Jew  be  merciful. 

Shy.    On  what  compulsion  must  I?     Tell  me  that. 

Por.    The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained. 
It  droppeth,  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
Upon  the  place   beneath:  it  is  twice  blessed; 
It  blesseth  hin.   that  gives,  and  him  that  takes. 
Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest ;  it  becomes 
The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown ; 


Act  IV.]        MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  563 

His  sceptre  shows  tlie  force  of  temporal  power 

The  atti'ibute  to  awe  and  majesty, 

Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings ; 

But  mercy  is  above  this  sceptered  sway ; 

It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings ; 

It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself; 

And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest  God's, 

When  mercy  seasons  justice.     Therefore,  Jew, 

Though  justice  be  thy  plea,  consider  this, — 

That  in  the  course  of  justice  none  of  us 

Should  see  salvation ;  we  do  pray  for  mercy ; 

And  that  same  prayer  doth  teach  us  all  to  render 

The  deeds  of  mercy.     I  have  spoke  thus  much, 

To  mitigate  the  justice  of  thy  plea ; 

Which  if  thou  follow,  this  strict  court  of  Venice 

Must  needs  give  sentence  'gainst  the  merchant  there. 

Shy.    My  deeds  upon  my  head !  I  crave  the  law, 
The  penalty  and  forfeit  of  my  bond. 

Por    Is  he  not  able  to  discharge  the  money  ? 

Bass.    Yes,  here  I  tender  it  for  him  in  the  court ; 
Yea,  twice  the  sum.     If  that  will  not  suffice, 
I  will  be  bound  to  pay  it  ten  times  o'er 
On  forfeit  of  my  hands,  my  head,  my  heart. 
If  this  will  not  suffice,  it  must  appear 
That  malice  bears  down  truth.     And  I  beseech  you. 
Wrest  once  the  law  to  your  authority ; 
To  do  a  great  right,  do  a  little  wrong ; 
And  curb  this  cruel  devil  of  his  will. 

Por.    It  must  not  be ;  there  is  no  power  in  Venice 
Can  alter  a  decree   established ; 
'Twill  be  recorded  for  a  precedent ; 
And  many  an  error,  by  the  same  example. 
Will  rush  into  the  state.     It  cannot  be. 

Shy.    A  Daniel  come  to  judgment !  Yea,  a  Daniel !  — 
0  wise  young  judge,  how  do  I  honor  thee  ! 

Por.    I  pray  you,  let  me  look  upon  the  bond. 

Shy.    Here  'tis,  most  reverend  doctor,  here  it  is. 

Por.    Shylock,  there's  thrice  thy  money  offered  theo. 

Shy.    An  oath,  an  oath,  I  have  an  oath  in  heaven. 
Shall  I  lay  perjury  upon  my  soul? 
No,  not  for  Venice. 

Por.  Why,  this  bond  is  forfeit; 

And  lawfully  by  this  the  Jew  may  claim 
A  pound  of  flesh,  to  be  by  him  cut  off 
Nearest  the  merchant's  heart. — Be  merciful : 
Take  thrice  thy  moi\ey;   bid  me  tear  the  bond. 


564  MERCHANT   OF   V  JANICE.       [Act  IV 

Sliy.    AVhen  it  is  paid  according  to  the  tenor. — 
It  dotli  appear,  you  are  a  worthy  judge ; 
You  know  the  law ;  your  exposition 
Ilath  been  most  sound.     I  charge  you  by  the  law, 
Whereof  you  are  a  well-deserving  pillar, 
Proceed  to  judgment.     By  my  soul,  I  swear, 
There  is  no  power  in  the  tongue  of  man 
To  alter  me  !     I  stay  here  on   my  bond. 

Ant.    Most  heartily  I  do  beseech  the  court 
To  give  the  judgment, 

Por.  Why,  then,  thus  it  is. 

You  must  prepare  your  bosom  for  his  knife. 

Shy.    0  noble  judge  !     0  excellent  young  man ! 

Por.    For  the  intent  and  purpose  of  the  law 
Hath  full  relation  to  the  penalty, 
Which  here  appeareth  due  upon  the  bond. 

Shy.    'Tis  very  true.     0  wise  and  upright  judge ! 
How  much  more  elder  art  thou  than  thy  looks  ! 

Por.    Therefore  lay  bare  your  bosom. 

Shy.  Ay,  his  breast ; 

So  says  the  bond. — Doth  it  not,  noble  judge  ?  — 
Nearest  his  heart ;  those  are  the  very  words. 

Por.    It  is  so.     Are  there  balance  here,  to  weigh 
The  flesh? 

Shy.  I  have  them  ready. 

Por.    Have  by  some  surgeon,  Shylock,  on  your  charge, 
To  stop  his  wounds,  lest  he  do  bleed  to  death. 

Sliy.    Is  it  so  nominated  in  the  bond  ? 

Por.    It  is  not  so  expressed ;  but  what  of  that  ? 
'Twere  good  you  do  so  much  for  charity. 

SJiy.    I  cannot  find  it ;  'tis  not  in  the  bond. 

Por.    Come,  merchant,  have  you  any  thing  to  say? 

Ant.    But  little ;  I  am  armed,  and  well  prepared. — 
Give  me  your  hand,  Bassanio ;  fare  you  well ! 
Grieve  not  that  I  am  fallen  to  this  for  you; 
For  herein  fortune  shows  herself  more  kind 
Than  is  her  custom.     It  is  still  her  use. 
To  let  the  wretched  man  outlive  his  wealth. 
To  view  with  hollow  eye,  and  wrinkled  brow, 
An  age  of  poverty ;  from  which  lingering  penance 
Of  such  misery  doth  she  cut  me  off. 
Commend  me  to  your  honorable  wife. 
Tell  her  the  process  of  Antonio's  end ; 
Say,  how  I  loved  you ;  speak  me  fair  in  death ; 
And  when  the  tale  is  told,  bid  her  be  judge, 
Whether  Bassanio  had  not  once  a  love. 


ACTIV.J       MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  565 

Repent  not  you  that  you  shall  lose  your  friend, 
And  he  repents  not  that  he  pays  yo*^ur  debt ; 
For,  if  the  Jew  do  cut  but  deep  enough, 
I'll  pay  it  instantly  with  all  my  heart. 

Bass.    Antonio,  I  am  married  to  a  wife, 
Which  is  as  dear  to  me  as  life  itself; 
But  life  itself,  my  wife,  and  all  the  world, 
Are  not  with  me  esteemed  above  thy  life. 
I  would  lose  all,  ay,  sacrifice  them  all 
Here  to  this  devil,  to  deliver  you. 

For.    Your  wife  would  give  you  little  thanks  for  that, 
If  she  were  by,  to  hear  you  make  the  offer. 

G-ra.    I  have  a  wife,  whom,  I  protest,  I  love; 
I  would  she  were  in  heaven,  so  she  could 
Entreat  some  power  to  change  this  currish  Jew. 

Ner.    'Tis  well  you  offer  it  behind  her  back ; 
The  wish  would  make  else  an  unquiet  house. 

Shy.  These  be  the  Christian  husbands.    I  have  a  daughter : 
'Would  any  of  the  stock  of  Barabbas 
Had  been  her  husband,  rather  than  a  Christian !        \^Aside, 
We  trifle  time.     I  pray  thee,  pursue  sentence. 

Por.  A  pound  of  that  same  merchant's  flesh  is  thine; 
The  court  awards  it,  and  the  law  doth  give  it. 

Shy.    Most  rightful  judge  ! 

Por.  And  you  must  cut  this  flesh  from  off  his  breast ; 
The  law  allows  it,  and  the  court  awards  it. 

Shy.  Most  learned  judge  ! — A  sentence  :  come,  prepare. 

Por.    Tarry  a  little; — there  is  something  else. — 
This  bond  doth  give  thee  here  no  jot  of  blood ; 
The  words  expressly  are,  a  pound  of  flesh. 
Take  then  thy  bond,  take  thou  thy  pound  of  flesh ; 
But  in  the  cutting  it,  if  thou  dost  shed 
One  drop  of  Christian  blood,  thy  lands  and  goods 
Are,  by  the  laws  of  Venice,  confiscate 
Unto  the  state  of  Venice. 

Gra.  0  upright  judge  ! — Mark,  Jew; — 0  learned  judge! 

Shy.    Is  that  the  law  ? 

Por.  Thyself  shall  see  the  act ; 

For,  as  thou  urgest  justice,  be  assured, 
Thou  shalt  have  justice,  more  than  thou  desir'st. 

G-ra.    0  learned  judge  ! — Mark,  Jew ; — a  learned  judge : 

Shy.    I  take  this  offer  then;  —  pay  the  bond  thrice, 
And  let  the  Christian  go. 

Bass  Here  is  the  money. 

2x 


566  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.       [Act  IV 

Pot.  Soft; 

The  Jew  shall  have  all  justice; — soft!  —  no  haste;  — 
He  shall  have  nothing  but  the  penalty. 

G-ra.    0  Jew !     An  upright  judge,  a  learned  judge ! 

Por.    Therefore  prepare  thee  to  cut  off  the  flesh : 
Shed  thou  no  blood ;  nor  cut  thou  less,  nor  more, 
But  just  a  pound  of  flesh.     If  thou  tak'st  more, 
Or  less,  than  a  just  pound,  —  be  it  but  so  much 
As  makes  it  light,  or  heavy,  in  the  substance. 
Or  the  division  of  the  twentieth  part 
Of  one  poor  scruple ;  nay,  if  the  scale  do  turn    - 
But  in  the  estimation  of  a  hair, — 
Thou  diest,  and  all  thy  goods  are  confiscate. 

Gra.    A  second  Daniel,  a  Daniel,  Jew ! 
Now,  infidel,  I  have  thee  on  the  hip. 

Por.    Why  doth  the  Jew  pause  ?     Take  thy  forfeiture. 

Shy.    Give  me  my  principal,  and  let  me  go. 

Bass.    I  have  it  ready  for  thee ;  here  it  is. 

Por.    He  hath  refused  it  in  the  open  court ; 
He  shall  have  merely  justice,  and  his  bond. 

Gra.    A  Daniel,  still  say  I ;  —  a  second  Daniel ! 
I  thank  thee,  Jew,  for  teaching  me  that  word. 

SJty.    Shall  I  not  have  barely  my  principal? 

Por.    Thou  shalt  have  nothing  but  the  forfeiture, 
To  be  so  taken  at  thy  peril,  Jew. 

Shy.    Why,  then  the  devil  give  him  good  of  it ! 
I'll  stay  no  longer  question. 

Por. '  Tarry,  Jew ; 

The  law  hath  yet  another  hold  on  you. 
It  is  enacted  in  the  laws  of  Venice, — 
If  it  be  proved  against  an  alien. 
That,  by  direct  or  indirect  attempts, 
He  seek  the  life  of  any  citizen, 
The  party,  'gainst  the  which  he  doth  contrive. 
Shall  seize  one  half  his  goods ;  the  other  half 
Comes  to  the  privy  coffer  of  the  state; 
And  the  offender's  life  lies  in  the  mercy 
Of  the  duke  only,  'gainst  all  other  voice. 
In  which  predicament,  I  say,  thou  stand'st : 
For  it  appears  by  manifest  proceeding. 
That,  indirectly,  and  directly  too. 
Thou  hast  contrived  against  the  very  life 
Of  the  defendant ;  and  thou  hast  incurred 
The  danger  formerly  by  me  rehearsed. 
Down,  therefore,  and  beg  mercy  of  the  duke. 

Gra.    Beg,  that  thou  mayst  have  leave  to  hang  thyself: 


ActIY.]       merchant   of   VENICE.  567 

And  yet,  thy  wealth  being  forfeit  to  the  state. 

Thou  hast  not  left  the  value  of  a  cord; 

Therefore,  thou  must  be  hanged  at  the  state's  charge. 

Duke.    That  thou  shalt  see  the  difference  of  our  spirit, 
1  pardon  thee  thy  life  before  thou  ask  it. 
For  half  thy  wealth,  it  is  Antonio's ; 
The  other  half  comes  to  the  general  state, 
Which  humbleness  may  drive  unto  a  fine. 

Por.    Ay,  for  the  state;  not  for  Antonio. 

Shy.    Nay,  take  my  life  and  all;  pardon  not  that. 
You  take  my  house,  when  you  do  take  the  prop 
That  doth  sustain  my  house ;  you  take  my  life, 
When  you  do  take  the  means  Avhereby  I  live. 

Por.    What  mercy  can  you  render  him,  Antonio  ? 

Gra.    A  halter  gratis  ;  nothing  else,  for  God's  sake. 

Ant.    So  please  my  lord  the  duke  and  all  the  court, 
To  quit  the  fine  for  one  half  of  his  goods ; 
I  am  content,  so  he  will  let  me  have 
The  other  half  in  use,  —  to  render  it, 
Upon  his  death,  unto  the  gentleman 
That  lately  stole  his  daughter. 
Two  things  provided  more.  —  That,  for  this  favor, 
He  presently  become  a  Christian; 
The  other,  that  he  do  record  a  gift. 
Here  in  the  court,  of  all  he  dies  possessed. 
Unto  his  son  Lorenzo,  and  his  daughter. 

Duke.    He  shall  do  this ;  or  else  I  do  recant 
The  pardon  that  I  late  pronounced  here. 

Por.    Art  thou  contented,  Jew ;  what  dost  thou  say  ? 

Shy.    I  am  content. 

Por.  Clerk,  draw  a  deed  of  gift. 

Shy.    I  pray  you,  give  me  leave  to  go  from  hence ; 
I  am  not  well:  send  the  deed  after  me, 
And  I  will  sign  it. 

Duke.  Get  thee  gone ;  but  do  it. 

Gra.  In  christening,  thou  shalt  have  two  god-fathers ; 
Had  I  been  judge,  thou  shouldst  have  had  ten  more; 
To  bring  thee  to  the  gallows,  not  the  font. 

\^Exit   SlIYLOCR.. 

Duke.    Sir,  I  entreat  you  home  with  me  to  dinner. 

Por.    I  humbly  do  desire  your  grace  of  pardon ; 
I  must  away  this  night  toward  Padua, 
And  it  is  meet  I  presently  set  forth. 

Duke.    I  am  sorry  that  yonr  leisure  serves  you  not. 
Antaiio,  gratify  this  gentleman; 
For,   in  my  mind,  you  are  much  bound  to  him. 

\_Exeunt  Duke,  Magnificoes,  and  Train. 


^SS  iM  E 11  C  II  ANT    OF    VENICE.       [A ex  IV 

Bass.    Most  worthy  genlleman,  I  and  my  friend 
Have  by  your  wisdom  been  this  day  acquitted 
Of  grievous  penalties ;  in  lieu  whereof, 
Three  thousand  ducats,  due  unto  the  Jew, 
We  freely  cope  your  courteous  pains  withal. 

Ant.    And  stand  indebted,  over  and  above. 
In  love  and  service  to  you  evermore. 

Por.    He  is  well  paid  that  is  well  satisfied; 
And  I,  delivering  you,  am  satisfied, 
And  therein  do  account  myself  well  paid ; 
My  mind  was  never  yet  more  mercenary.  , 

I  pray  you,  know  me,  when  we  meet  again ; 
I  wish  you  well,  and  so  I  take  my  leave. 

Bass.    Dear  sir,  of  force  I  must  attempt  you  further; 
Take  some  remembrance  of  us,  as  a  tribute, 
Not  as  a  fee.     Grant  me  two  things,  I  pray  you, 
Not  to  deny  me,  and  to  pardon  me. 

Por.    You  press  me  far,  and  therefore  I  will  yield. 
Give  me  your  gloves ;  I'll  wear  them  for  your  sake ; 
And  for  your  love,  I'll  take  this  ring  from  you. — 
Do  not  draw  back  your  hand ;  I'll  take  no  more ; 
And  you  in  love  shall  not  deny  me  this. 

Bass.    This  ring,  good  sir, —  alas,  it  is  a  trifle; 
I  will  not  shame  myself  to  give  you  this. 

Bor.    I  will  have  nothing  else  but  only  this; 
And  now,  methinks,  I  have  a  mind  to  it. 

Bass.    There's  more  depends  on  this,  than  on  the  value. 
The  dearest  ring  in  Venice  will  I  give  you, 
And  find  it  out  by  proclamation ; 
Only  for  this,  I  pray  you  pardon  me. 

Bor.    I  see,  sir,  you  are  liberal  in  offers. 
You  taught  me  first  to  beg ;  and  now,  methinks. 
You  teach  me  how  a  beggar  should  be  answered. 

Bass.    Good  sir,  this  ring  was  given  me  by  my  wife : 
And  when  she  put  it  on,  she  made  me  vow, 
That  I  should  neither  sell,  nor  give,  nor  lose  it. 

Bor.    That  'scuse  serves  many  men  to  save  their  gifts. 
An  if  your  wife  be  not  a  mad  woman. 
And  know  how  well  I  have  deserved  this  ring, 
She  would  not  hold  out  enemy  for  ever. 
For  giving  it  to  me.     Well,  peace  be  with  you ! 

[^Bxeimt  Portia  and  Nerissa. 

Ant.    My  lord  Bassanio,  let  him  have  the  ring; 
Let  his  deservings,  and  my  love  withal, 
Be  valued  'gainst  your  wife's  commandment. 

Bass.    Go,  Gratiano,  run  and  overtake  him; 


Act  v.]         MERCHANT    OF    VENICE  56S 

Give  him  the  ring;  and  bring  him,  if  thou  canst, 
Unto  Antonio's  house;  —  away,  make  haste. 

\_Fxii  Gratiano. 
Come,  you  and  I  will  thither  presently; 
And  in  the  morning  early  will  we  both 
Fly  toward  Belmont.     Come,  Antonio.  \_Uxeunt. 

SCENE  II.     The  same.     A  Street. 
Enter  Portia  and  Nerissa. 

Por.    Inquire  the  Jew's  house  out,  give  him  this  deed, 
And  let  him  sign  it.     We'll  away  to-night. 
And  be  a  day  before  our  husbands  home. 
This  deed  will  be  well  welcome  to  Lorenzo. 

Enter  Gratiano. 

G-ra.    Fair  sir,  you  are  well  overtaken. 
My  lord  Bassanio,  upon  more  advice. 
Hath  sent  you  here  this  ring ;  and  doth  entreat 
Your  company  at  dinner. 

Por.  That  cannot  be : 

This  ring  I  do  accept  most  thankfully, 
And  so,  I  pray  you,  tell  him.     Furthermore, 
I  pray  you,  show  my  youth  old  Shylock's  house. 

ara.    That  will  I  do. 

Ner.  Sir,  I  would  speak  with  you. — 

I'll  see  if  I  can  get  my  husband's  ring,  \_To  Portia. 

Which  I  did  make  him  swear  to  keep  for  ever. 

Por.  Thou  may'st,  I  warrant.    We  shall  have  old  swearing, 
That  they  did  give  the  rings  away  to  men ; 
But  we'll  outface  them,  and  outswear  them  too. 
Away,  make  haste ;  thou  know'st  where  I  will  tarry. 

Ner.    Come,  good  sir,  will  you  show  me  to  this  house  ? 

[Exeunt, 


ACT   V. 

SCENE  I.     Belmont.     Avenue  to  Portia's  House. 

Entir  LoRE^rzo  and  Jessica. 

Lor     The  moon  shines  bright. — In  such  a  night  as  this, 
When  the  sweet  wind  did  gently  kiss  the  trees, 
And  they  did  make  no  noise;  in  such  a  night, 
2x* 


.-STO  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.          [Act  V 

Troilus,  mcthinks,  mounted  the  Trojan  walls, 
And  sighed  his  soul  toward  the  Grecian  tents, 
Where  Cressid  lay  that  night. 

Jes.  In  such  a  night, 

Did  Thisbe  fearfully  o'ertrip  the  dew ; 
And  saw  the  lion's  shadow  ere  himself, 
And  ran  dismayed  away. 

Lor.  In  such  a  night, 

Stood  Dido,  with  a  willow  in  her  hand, 
Upon  the  Avild  sea-banks,  and  waved  her  love 
To  come  again  to  Carthage. 

Jes.  In  such  a  night, 

Medea  gathered  the  enchanted  herbs 
That  did  renew  old  ^son. 

Lor.  In  such  a  night, 

Did  Jessica  steal  from  the  wealthy  Jew ; 
And  Avith  an  unthrift  love  did  run  from  Venice, 
As  far  as  Belmont. 

Jes.  In  such  a  night, 

Did  young  Lorenzo  swear  he  loved  her  w^ell ; 
Stealing  her  soul  wdth  many  vows  of  faith, 
And  ne'er  a  true  one. 

Lor.  In  such  a  night, 

Did  pretty  Jessica,  like  a  little  shrew, 
Slander  her  love,  and  he  forgave  it  her. 

Jes.    I  would  out-night  you,  did  nobody  come. 
But,  hark,  I  hear  the  footing  of  a  man. 

Enter  Stephano. 

Lor.    Who  comes  so  fast  in  silence  of  the  night? 

Steph.    A  friend. 

Lor.    A  friend  ?    What  friend  ?    Your  name,  I  pray  you, 
friend  ? 

Steph.    Stephano  is  my  name ;  and  I  bring  word, 
My  mistress  will  before  the  break  of  day 
Be  here  at  Belmont.     She  doth  stray  about 
By  holy  crosses,  where  she  kneels  and  prays 
For  happy  wedlock  hours. 

Lor.  Who  comes  with  her? 

Steph.    None,  but  a  holy  hermit,  and  her  maid. 
I  pray  you,  is  my  master  yet  returned? 

Lor.    He  is  not,  nor  we  have  not  heard  from  him. — 
But  go  we  in,  I  pray  thee,  Jessica, 
And  ceremoniously  let  us  prepare 
Some  welcome  for  the  mistress  of  the  house. 


r 


Act  v.]         MERCHANT   OF   VEXTCE.  571 

Enter  Launcelot. 

Laun.    Sola,  sola,  wo,  ha,  ho,  sola,  sola! 

Lor.  WIk)  calls  ? 

Laun.  Sola !  Did  you  see  master  Lorenzo,  and  mistress 
Lorenzo  ?     Sola,  sola  ! 

Lor.    Leave  hollaing,  man  ;   here. 

Laun.    Sola  !     Where  !     Where  ? 

Lor.    Here. 

Laun.  Tell  him,  there's  a  post  come  from  my  master, 
•with  his  horn  .full  of  good  news ;  my  master  will  be  here 
ere  morning.  [Lxit. 

Lor.  Sweet  soul,  let's  in,  and  there  expect  their  coming. 
And  yet  no  matter;  —  why  should  we  go  in? 
My  friend  Stephano,  signify,  I  pray  you. 
Within  the  house,  your  mistress  is  at  hand ; 
And  bring  your  music  forth  into  the  air. — 

[Lxit  Stephano. 
How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank ! 
Here  will  we  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 
Creep  in  our  ears ;  soft  stillness,  and  the  night, 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 
Sit,  Jessica.     Look,  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold. 
There's  not  the  smallest  orb,  which  thou  behold'st, 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 
Still  quiring  to  the  young-eyed  cherubims  ; 
Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls ; 
But  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  cannot  hear  it. — 

Enter  Musicians. 

Come,  ho,  and  wake  Diana  with  a  hymn ; 

With  sweetest  touches  pierce  your  mistress'  ear, 

And  draw  her  home  with  music.  [Music. 

Jes.    I  am  never  merry,  when  I  hear  sweet  music. 

Lor.    The  reason  is,  your  spirits  are  attentive ; 
For  do  but  note  a  wild  and  wanton  herd. 
Or  race  of  youthful  and  unhandled  colts, 
Fetching  mad  bounds,  bellowing,  and  neighing  loud, 
Which  is  the  hot  condition  of  their  blood ; 
If  they  but  hear  perchance  a  trumpet  sound. 
Or  any  air  of  music  touch  their  ears. 
You  shall  perceive  them  make  a  mutual  stand, 
Their  savage  eyes  turned  to  a  modest  gaze, 
By  the  sweet  power  of  music.     Therefore,  the  poet 


572  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  [Act  V- 

Did  feign  that  Orpheus  drew  trees,  stones,  and  floods 

Since  nought  so  stockish,  hard,  and  full  of  rage, 

But  music  for  the  time  doth  change  his  nature. 

The  man  that  hath  no  music  in  himself. 

Nor  is  not  moved  with  concord  of  sweet  sounds, 

Is  fit  for  treasons,  stratagems,  and  spoils ; 

The  motions  of  his  spirit  are  dull  as  night, 

And  his  aflfections  dark  as  Erebus. 

Let  no  such  man  be  trusted.  —  Mark  the  music. 

Enter  Portia  and  Nerissa  at  a  distance. 

Por.    That  light  we  see  is  burning  in  my  hall. 
How  far  that  little  candle  throws  his  beams ! 
So  shines  a  good  deed  in  a  naughty  world. 

Ner.  When  the  moon  shone,  we  did  not  see  the  candle. 

Por.    So  doth  the  greater  glory  dim  the  less. 
A  substitute  shines  brightly  as  a  king. 
Until  a  king  be  by ;  and  then  his  state 
Empties  itself,  as  doth  an  inland  brook 
Into  the  main  of  waters.     Music  !     Hark  ! 

Ner.    It  is  your  music,  madam,  of  the  house. 

Por.    Nothing  is  good,  I  see,  without  respect; 
Methinks  it  sounds  much  sweeter  than  by  day. 

Ner.    Silence  bestows  that  virtue  on  it,  madam. 

Por.    The  crow  doth  sing  as  sweetly  as  the  lark, 
When  neither  is  attended ;  and,  I  think. 
The  nightingale,  if  she  should  sing  by  day. 
When  every  goose  is  cackling,  would  be  thought 
No  better  a  musician  than  the  wren. 
How  many  things  by  season  soasoned  are 
To  their  right  praise,  and  trut  |  erfection ! — 
Peace,  hoa !     The  m.oon  sleeps  with  Endymion, 
And  would  not  be  awaked !  [Music  ceases. 

Lor.  That  is  the  voice, 

Or,  I  am  much  deceived,  of  Portia. 

Por.    He  knows  me,  as  the  blind  man  knows  the  cuckoo, 
By  the  bad  voice. 

Lor.  Dear  lady,  welcome  home. 

Por.    We  have  been  praying  for  our  husbands'  welfare. 
Which  speed,  we  hope,  the  better  for  our  words. 
Are  they  returned? 

Lor.  Madam,  they  are  not  yet ; 

But  there  is  come  a  messenger  before. 
To  signify  their  coming. 

Por.  Go  in,  Nerissa; 

Give  order  to  my  servants,  that  they  take 


Act  v.]        MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  573 

No  note  at  all  of  our  being  absent  hence ; — 

"Nor  you,  Lorenzo ;  —  Jessica,  nor  you.      [J.  tucket  sounds. 

Lor.    Your  husband  is  at  hand ;  I  hear  his  trumpet ; 
We  are  no  tell-tales,  madam ;  fear  you  not. 

For.    This  night,  methinks,  is  but  the  daylight  sick ; 
It  looks  a  little  paler;   'tis  a  day, 
Such  as  a  day  is  when  the  sun  is  hid. 

Enter  Bassanio,  Antonio,  Gratiano,  and  their  Followers. 

Bass.    We  should  hold  day  -with  the  antipodes, 
If  you  would  walk  in  absence  of  the  sun. 

For.    Let  me  give  light,  but  let  me  not  be  light ; 
For  a  light  wife  doth  make  a  heavy  husband. 
And  never  be  Bassanio  so  for  me ; 
But  God  sort  a41 !  —  You  are  welcome  home,  my  lord. 

Bass.    I  thank  you,  madam  ;  give  welcome  to  my  friend. — 
This  is  the  man,  this  is  Antonio, 
To  whom  I  am  so  infinitely  bound. 

Por.    You  should  in  all  sense  be  much  bound  to  him, 
For,  as  I  hear,  he  was  much  bound  for  you. 

Ant.    No  more  than  I  am  well  acquitted  of. 

Por.    Sir,  you  are  very  welcome  to  our  house. 
It  must  appear  in  otber  ways  than  words. 
Therefore,  I  scant  this  breathing  courtesy. 

[Gratiano  and  Nerissa  seem  to  talk  apart. 

Grra.    By  yonder  moon,  I  swear,  you  do  me  wrong, 
In  faith,  I  gave  it  to  the  judge's  clerk. 
Would  he  were  gelt  that  had  it,  for  my  part, 
Since  you  do  take  it,  love,  so  much  at  heart. 

Por.    A  quarrel,  ho,  already?     What's  the  matter? 

Gra.    About  a  hoop  of  gold,  a  paltry  ring 
That  she  did  give  me ;  whose  posy  was 
For  all  the  world  like  cutler's  poetry 
Upon  a  knife,  Love  me,  and  leave  me  not. 

Ner.    What  talk  you  of  the  posy,  or  the  value? 
You  swore  to  me,  when  I  did  give  it  you. 
That  you  would  Avear  it  till  your  hour  of  death; 
And  that  it  should  lie  with  you  in  your  grave. 
Though  not  for  me,  yet  for  your  vehement  oaths. 
You  should  have  been  respective,  and  have  kept  it. 
Gave  it  a  judge's  clerk! — But  well  I  know. 
The  clerk  wil  ne'er  wear  hair  on  his  face  that  had  it 

Gra.    He  will,  an  if  he  live  to  be  a  man. 

Ner.    Ay,  if  a  woman  live  to  be  a  man. 

Gra.    Now,  by  this  hand,  I  gave  it  to  a  youth, — 
A  kind  of  boy ;  a  little  scrubbed  boy. 


574  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.         [Act  V 

No  liigluT  than  thyself;  the  jiulge's  clerk; 
A  prating  boy  that  begged  it  as  a  fee: 
I  could  not  for  ray  heart  deny  it  him. 

Por.    You  were  to  blame  —  I  must  be  plain  with  you  — 
To  part  so  slightly  with  your  wife's  first  gift ; 
A.  thing  stuck  on  with  oaths  upon  your  finger, 
And  riveted  so  with  faith  unto  your  flesh. 
I  gave  mv  love  a  ring,  and  made  him  swear 
Never  to  part  with  it ;  and  here  he  stands ; 
I  dare  be  sworn  for  him,  he  w^ould  not  leave  it, 
Nor  pluck  it  from  his  finger,  for  the  wealth 
That  the  world  masters.     Now,  in  faith,  Gratiano, 
You  give  your  wife  too  unkind  a  cause  of  grief; 
An  'twere  to  me,  I  should  be  mad  at  it. 

Bass.    Why,  I  were  best  to  cut  my  left  hand  off. 
And  swear  I  lost  the  ring  defending  it.  [A%ide, 

Grra.    My  lord  Bassanio  gave  his  ring  away 
Unto  the  judge  that  begged  it,  and,  indeed. 
Deserved  it  too ;  and  then  the  boy,  his  clerk, 
That  took  some  pains  in  writing,  he  begged  mine ; 
And  neither  man,  nor  master,  would  take  aught 
But  the  two  rings. 

Por.  What  ring  gave  you,  my  lord? 

Not  that,   I  hope,  which  you  received  of  me. 

Pass.    If  I  could  add  a  lie  unto  a  fault, 
I  would  deny  it ;  but  you  see,  my  finger 
Hath  not  the  ring  upon  it ;  it  is  gone. 

Por.    Even  so  void  is  your  false  heart  of  truth. 
By  Heaven,  I  will  ne'er  come  in  your  bed 
Until  I  see  the  ring. 

JYer.    Nor  I  in  yours. 
Till  I  again  see  mine. 

Bass.  Sweet  Portia, 

If  you  did  know  tc  whom  I  gave  the  ring. 
If  you  did  know  for  whom  I  gave  the  ring. 
And  vfould  conceive  for  what  I  gave  the  ring, 
And  how  unwillingly  I  left  the  ring, 
When  nought  would  be  accepted  but  the  ring. 
You  would  abate  the  strength  of  your  displeasure. 

Por.    If  you  had  known  the  virtue  of  the  ring, 
Or  half  her  worthiness  that  gave  the  ring. 
Or  your  own  honor  to  contain  the  ring. 
You  would  not  then  have  parted  with  the  ring. 
What  man  is  there  so  much  unreasonable. 
If  you  had  pleased  to  have  defended  it 
With  any  terms  of  zeal,  wanted  the  modesty 


Act  v.]         MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  575 

To  urge  the  thing  held  as  a  ceremony? 

Nerissa  teaches  me  what  to  believe ; 

I'll  die  for't,  but  some  woman  had  the  ring. 

Bass.    No,  by  mine  honor,  madam,  by  my  soul, 
No  woman  had  it,  but  a  civil  doctor. 
Which  did  refuse  three  thousand  ducats  of  me, 
And  begged  the  ring ;  the  which  I  did  deny  him, 
And  suifered  him  to  go  displeased  away ; 
Even  he  that  had  held  up  the  very  life 
Of  my  dear  friend.     What  should  I  say,  sweet  lady? 
I  was  enforced  to  send  it  after  him ; 
I  was  beset  with  shame  and  courtesy ; 
My  honor  would  not  let  ingratitude 
So  much  besmear  it.     Pardon  me,  good  lady ; 
For,  by  these  blessed  candles  of  the  night, 
Had  you  been  there,  I  think,  you  would  have  begged 
The  ring  of  me  to  give  the  worthy  doctor. 

Por.    Let  not  that  doctor  e'er  come  near  my  house : 
Since  he  hath  got  the  jewel  that  I  loved, 
And  that  which  you  did  swear  to  keep  for  me, 
I  will  become  as  liberal  as  you. 
I'll  not  deny  him  any  thing  I  have, 
No,  not  my  body,  nor  my  husband's  bed. 
Know  him  I  shall,  I  am  well  sure  of  it. 
Lie  not  a  night  from  home ;  watch  me,  like  Argus ; 
If  you  do  not,  if  I  be  left  alone, 
Now,  by  mine  honor,  which  is  yet  my  own, 
I'll  have  that  doctor  for  my  bedfellow. 

Her.    And  I  his  clerk ;  therefore  be  well  advised. 
How  you  do  leave  me  to  mine  own  protection. 

G-ra.    Well,  do  you  so  ;  let  not  me  take  him  then : 
For  if  I  do,  I'll  mar  the  young  clerk's  pen. 

Ant.    I  am  the  unhappy  subject  of  these  quarrels. 

JPor.    Sir,  grieve    not   you ;    you    are  welcome  notwith- 
standing. 

Bass.    Portia,  forgive  me  this  enforced  wrong; 
And,  in  the  hearing  of  these  many  friends 
I  swear  to  thee,  even  by  thine  own  fair  eyes, 
Wherein  I  see  myself, — 

For.  Mark  you  but  that! 

In  both  my  eyes  he  doubly  sees  himself: 
In  each  eye  one. —  Swear  by  your  double  self, 
And  there's  an  oath  of  credit. 

Bass  Nay,  but  hear  me. 

Pardon  this  fault,  and  by  my  soul  I  swear, 
I  never  more  will  break  an  oath  with  thee. 


570  ]\IP:RC  11  ANT   OF   VENICE.         [Act  V 

Anf.    I  once  did  lend  my  body  for  his  wealth; 
Which,  but  for  him  that  had  your  husband's  ring, 

\_To  Portia, 
Had  quite  miscarried.     I  dare  be  bound  again, 
My  soul  upon  the  forfeit,  that  your  lord 
Will  never  more  break  faith  advisedly. 

Por.    Then  you  shall  be  his  surety.     Give  him  this ; 
And  bid  him  keep  it  better  than  the  other. 

Ant.    Here,  lord  Bassanio ;  swear  to  keep  this  ring. 

Bass.    By  heaven,  it  is  the  same  I  gave  the  doctor ! 

Por.    I  had  it  of  him.     Pardon  me,  Bassanio, 
For  by  this  ring  the  doctor  lay  with  me. 

JVer.    And  pardon  me,  my  gentle  Gratiano ; 
For  that  same  scrubbed  boy,  the  doctor's  clerk, 
In  lieu  of  this,  last  night  did  lie  with  me. 

(xra.    Why,  this  is  like  the  mending  of  highways 
In  summer,  where  the  ways  are  fair  enough ; 
What !  are  we  cuckolds,  ere  we  have  deserved  it  ? 

Por.    Speak  not  so  grossly. — You  are  all  amazed. 
Here  is  a  letter ;  read  it  at  your  leisure ; 
It  comes  from  Padua,  from  Bellario ; 
There  you  shall  find,  that  Portia  was  the  doctor ; 
Nerissa  there,  her  clerk.     Lorenzo  here 
Shall  witness,  I  set  forth  as  soon  as  you. 
And  but  even  now  returned.     I  have  not  yet 
Entered  my  house. — Antonio,  you  are  welcome  ; 
And  I  have  better  news  in  store  for  you, 
Than  you  expect.     Unseal  this  letter  soon ; 
There  you  shall  find,  three  of  your  argosies 
Are  richly  come  to  harbor  suddenly ; 
You  shall  not  know  by  what  strange  accident 
I  chanced  on  this  letter. 

Aiit.  I  am  dumb. 

Bass.    Were  you  the  doctor,  and  I  knew  you  not  ? 

Gfra.  Were  you  the  clerk,  that  is  to  make  me  cuckold : 

N^er.    Ay ;  but  the  clerk  that  never  means  to  do  it ; 
Unless  he  live  until  he  be  a  man. 

Bass.    Sweet  doctor,  you  shall  be  my  bedfellow ; 
When  I  am  absent,  then  lie  with  my  wife. 

Ant.    Sweet  lady,  you  have  given  me  life,  and  living; 
For  here  I  read  for  certain,  that  my  ships 
Are  safely  come  to  road. 

Por.  How  now,  Lorenzo  ? 

My  clerk  hath  some  good  comforts  too  for  you. 

JS^er.    Ay,  and  I'll  give  them  him  without  a  fee. — 
There  do  I  give  to  you,  and  Jessica, 


AcxVJ         MERCHANT   OF    VENICE.  577 

From  the  rich  Jew,  a  special  deed  of  gift, 
After  his  death,  of  all  he  dies  possessed  of. 

Lor.    Fair  ladies,  you  drop  manna  in  the  way 
Of  starved  people. 

Por.    It  is  almost  morning, 
And  yet,  I  am  sure,  you  are  not  satisfied 
Of  these  events  at  full.     Let  us  go  in ; 
And  charge  us  there  upon  inter'gatories, 
And  we  will  answer  all  things  faithfully. 

G-ra.    Let  it  be  so.     The  first  inter'gatory 
That  my  Nerissa  shall  be  sworn  on,  is, 
Whether  till  the  next  night  she  had  rather  stay 
Or  go  to  bed  now,  being  two  hours  to  day ; 
But  were  the  day  come,  I  should  wish  it  dark. 
That  I  were  couching  with  the  doctor's  clei'k 
Well,  while  I  live,  I'll  fear  no  other  thing 
Sc  sore,  as  keeping  safe  Nerissa'a  ring.  [Exeunt. 


Vol.  L  — 37  2i 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


579 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

Duke,  living  in  exile. 

Frederick,  Brother  to  the  Duke,  and  Usurper  of  his  Dominions 

T  '  !■  Lords  attending  upon  the  Duke  in  his  banishment. 

Jaques,  j  ^     ^ 

Le  Beau,  a  Courtier  attending  upon  Frederick. 

Charles,  his  Wrestler. 

Oliver,    '\ 

Jaques,     >-  Sons  of  Sir  Rowland  de  Bois. 

Orlando,  ) 

-r.   "     '     [  Servants  to  Oliver. 
Dennis,  j 

Touchstone,  a  Clown. 

Sir  Oliver  >Iar-text.  a  Vicar. 

William,  a  country  FeTJow.,  in  love  with  Audrey. 
tS  Person  representing  Hymen. 

Rosalind,  Daughter  to  the  banished  Duke. 
Celia,  Daughter  to  Frederick. 
Phebe,  a  Shepherdess. 
Audrey,  a  country  Wench. 

Lords  belonging  to  the  two  Dukes ;  Pages,  Foresters,  and  other 
Attendants. 

The  SCENE  lies,  first.,  near  Oliver's  House  ;  afterwards,  partly 
in  the  Usurper's  Court,  and  partly  in  the  Forest  of  Arden. 


(580) 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


ACT   I. 

SCENE  I.     A71  Orchard  near  Oliver's  Rouse. 
Enter  Orlando  and  Adam, 

Orlando.  As  I  remember,  Adam,  it  was  upon  this  fashion 
bequeathed  me  by  "vvill ;  but  a  poor  thousand  crowns ;  and, 
as  thou  sayest,  charged  my  brother,  on  his  blessing,  to  breed 
me  well ;  and  there  begins  my  sadness.  My  brother  Jaques 
he  keeps  at  school,  and  report  speaks  goldenly  of  his  profit : 
for  my  pai't,  he  keeps  me  rustically  at  home,  or,  to  speak 
more  properly,  stays  me  here  at  home  unkept.  For  call  you 
that  keeping  for  a  gentleman  of  my  birth,  that  differs  not 
from  the  stalling  of  an  ox  ?  His  horses  are  bred  better ; 
for,  besides  that  they  are  fair  with  their  feeding,  they  are 
taught  their  manage,  and  to  that  end  riders  dearly  hired ; 
but  I,  his  brother,  gain  nothing  under  him  but  growth  ;  for 
the  which  his  animals  on  his  dunghills  are  as  much  bound  to 
him  as  I.  Besides  this  nothing  that  he  so  plentifully  gives 
me,  the  something  that  nature  gave  me,  his  countenance 
seems  to  take  from  me ;  he  lets  me  feed  with  his  hinds,  bars 
me  the  place  of  a  brother,  and,  as  much  as  in  him  lies,  mines 
my  gentility  with  my  education.  This  is  it,  Adam,  that 
grieves  me ;  and  the  spirit  of  my  father,  which  I  think  is 
within  me,  begins  to  mutiny  against  this  servitude.  I  will 
no  longer  endure  it,  though  yet  I  know  no  wise  remedy  how 
to  avoid  it. 

Unter  Oliver. 

Adam.    Yonder  comes  my  master,  your  brother. 
Orl.    Go  apart,  Adam,  and  thou  shalt  hear  how  he  will 
shake  me  up. 

OU.    Now,  sir !  what  make  you  here  ? 

2  Y  *  C58i) 


58-2  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  [Act  I 

0)'l.    Nothing.     I  am  not  tauglit  to  make  any  thing. 

OU.    What  mar  you  then,  sir  ? 

Or/.  Marry,  sir,  I  am  helping  you  to  mar  that  which  God 
made,  a  poor  unworthy  brother  of  yours,  with  idleness. 

on.    Marry,  sir,  be  better  employed,  and  be  naught  awhile. 

Orl.  Shall  I  keep  your  hogs,  and  eat  husks  with  them  ? 
What  prodigal  portion  have  I  spent,  that  I  should  come  to 
Buch  penury  ? 

OIL    Know  you  where  you  are,  sir? 

Orl.    0,  sir,  very  well ;  here  in  your  orchard. 

OIL    Know  you  before  whom,  sir  ? 

OrL  Ay,  better  than  he  I  am  before  knows  me.  I  know 
you  are  my  eldest  brother ;  and,  in  the  gentle  condition  of 
blood,  you  should  so  know  me.  The  courtesy  of  nations 
allows  you  my  better,  in  that  you  are  the  first-born ;  but  the 
same  tradition  takes  not  away  my  blood,  were  there  twenty 
brothers  betwixt  us.  I  have  as  much  of  my  father  in  me, 
as  you ;  albeit,  I  confess,  your  coming  before  me  is  nearer 
to  his  reverence. 

OIL    What,  boy! 

OrL  Come,  come,  elder  brother,  you  are  too  young  iu 
this. 

OIL    Wilt  thou  lay  hands  on  me,  villain  ? 

OrL  I  am  no  villain.  I  am  the  youngest  son  of  Sir  Row- 
land de  Bois ;  he  was  my  father  ;  and  he  is  thrice  a  villain, 
that  s.iys,  such  a  father  begot  villains.  Wert  thou  not  my 
brother,  I  would  not  take  this  hand  from  thy  throat,  till  this 
other  had  pulled  out  thy  tongue  for  saying  so ;  thou  hast 
railed  on  thyself. 

Adam.  Sweet  masters,  be  patient;  for  your  father's 
remembrance,  be  at  accord. 

on.    Let  me  go,  I  say. 

OrL  I  will  not,  till  I  please ;  you  shall  hear  me.  My 
father  charged  you  in  his  will  to  give  me  good  education : 
you  have  trained  me  like  a  peasant,  obscuring  and  hiding 
from  me  all  gentlemanlike  qualities.  The  spirit  of  my  father 
grows  strong  in  me,  and  I  will  no  longer  endure  it :  there 
fore  allow  me  such  exercises  as  may  become  a  gentleman, 
or  give  me  the  poor  allottery  my  father  left  me  by  testa- 
ment ;  with  that  I  will  go  buy  my  fortunes. 

OU.  And  what  wilt  thou  do  ?  Beg,  when  that  is  spent  *f 
Well,  sir,  get  you  in.  I  will  not  long  be  troubled  with  you . 
you  shall  have  some  part  of  your  will.    I  pray  you,  leave  me. 

OrL  I  will  no  further  offend  you,  than  becomes  me  for 
my  good. 

OIL    Get  you  with  him,  you  old  dog. 


Act  I.]  AS   YOU   LIKE  IT.  58& 

AdaJTi.  _  Is  old  dog  my  reward  ?  Most  true,  I  have  lost 
my  teeth  in  your  service. —  God  be  with  my  old  master  !  he 
would  not  have  spoke  such  a  word. 

[^Uxeunt  Orlando  and  Adam. 

OU.  Is  it  even  so  ?  Begin  you  to  grow  upon  me  ?  I  will 
physic  your  rankness,  and  yet  give  no  thousand  crowns 
neither.     Hola,  Dennis ! 

JSnter  Dennis. 

Den.    Calls  your  worship  ? 

OU.  Was  not  Charles,  the  duke's  wrestler,  here  to  speak 
with  me  ? 

J)en.  So  please  you,  he  is  here  at  the  door,  and  impor- 
tunes access  to  you. 

on.  Call  him  in.  lExit  Dennis.] — 'Twill  be  a  good  way ; 
and  to-morrow  the  wrestling  is. 

Enter  Charles. 

Cha.    Good  morrow  to  your  worship. 

OU.  Good  monsieur  Charles  !  what's  the  new  news  at  the 
new  court  ? 

Cha.  There's  no  news  at  the  court,  sir,  but  the  old  news ; 
that  is,  the  old  duke  is  banished  by  his  j-ounger  brother  the 
new  duke ;  and  three  or  four  loving  lords  have  put  them- 
selves into  voluntary  exile  with  him,  whose  lands  and  reve- 
nues enrich  the  new  duke;  therefore  he  gives  them  good 
leave  to  wander. 

OU.  Can  you  tell  if  Rosalind,  the  duke's  daughter,  be 
banished  with  her  father  ? 

Cha.  0,  no  ;  for  the  duke's  daughter,  her  cousin,  so  loves 
her, —  being  ever  from  their  cradles  bred  together, —  that 
she  would  have  followed  her  exile,  or  have  died  to  stay 
behind  her.  She  is  at  the  court,  and  no  less  beloved  of  her 
uncle  than  his  own  daughter ;  and  never  two  ladies  loved  as 
they  do. 

OU.    Where  will  the  old  duke  live  ? 

Cha.  They  say,  he  is  already  in  the  forest  of  Arden,  and 
a  many  merry  men  Avith  him ;  and  there  they  live  like  the 
old  Robin  Hood  of  England.  They  say,  many  young  gen- 
tlemen flock  to  him  every  day ;  and  fleet  the  time  care- 
lessly, as  they  did  in  the  golden  world. 

OU    What,  you  wrestle  to-morrow  before'  the  new  duke  ? 

Cha.  Marry,  do  I,  sir ;  and  I  came  to  acquaint  you  with 
a  matter.  I  am  given,  sir,  secretly  to  understand,  that  your 
younger  brother,  Orlando,  hath  a  disposition  to  come  in  dis- 
guised against  me  to  try  a  fall.     To-morrow,  sir.  I  wrestle 


584  AS   YOU    LIKE   IT.  [Act  L 

for  ray  credit;  and  lie  tliat  escapes  me  without  some  broken 
limb,  shall  acquit  him  well.  Your  brother  is  but  young,  and 
tender  ;  and,  for  your  love,  I  would  be  loath  to  foil  him,  as 
I  must,  for  my  own  honor,  if  he  come  in.  Therefore,  out 
of  my  love  to  you,  I  came  hither  to  acquaint  you  withal ; 
that  either  you  might  stay  him  from  his  intendment,  or  brook 
guch  disgrace  well  as  he  shall  run  into ;  in  that  it  is  a  thing 
of  his  own  search,  and  altogether  against  my  will. 

Oli.  Charles,  I  thank  thee  for  thy  love  to  me,  which  thou 
shalt  find  I  will  most  kindly  requite.  I  had  myself  notice 
of  my  brother's  purpose  herein,  and  have  by  underhand 
means  labored  to  dissuade  him  from  it ;  but  he  is  resolute. 
I'll  tell  thee,  Charles, — it  is  the  stubbornest  young  fellow 
of  France ;  full  of  ambition,  an  envious  emulator  of  every 
man's  good  parts,  a  secret  and  villanous  contriver  against  me 
his  natural  brother ;  therefore  use  thy  discretion.  I  had  as 
lief  thou  didst  break  his  neck  as  his  finger ;  and  thou  wert 
best  look  to't ;  for  if  thou  dost  him  any  slight  disgrace,  or 
if  he  do  not  mightily  grace  himself  on  thee,  he  will  practise 
against  thee  by  poison,  entrap  thee  by  some  treacherous 
device,  and  never  leave  thee  till  he  hath  ta'en  thy  life  by 
some  indirect  means  or  other ;  for,  I  assure  thee,  and  al- 
most with  tears  I  speak  it,  there  is  not  one  so  young  and  so 
villanous  this  day  living.  I  speak  but  brotherly  of  him  ; 
but  should  I  anatomize  him  to  thee  as  he  is,  I  must  blush 
and  weep,  and  thou  must  look  pale  and  wonder. 

Cha.  I  am  heartily  glad  I  came  hither  to  you.  If  he 
come  to-morrow,  I'll  give  him  his  payment.  If  ever  he  go 
alone  again,  I'll  never  wrestle  for  prize  more ;  and  so,  God 
keep  your  worship  !  \_Exit. 

Oli.  Farewell,  good  Charles.  —  Now  will  I  stir  this  game- 
ster ;  I  hope  I  shall  see  an  end  of  him  ;  for  my  soul,  yet  I 
know  not  why,  hates  nothing  more  than  he.  Yet  he's 
gentle ;  never  schooled,  and  yet  learned ;  full  of  noble  de- 
vice ;  of  all  sorts  enchantingly  beloved ;  and,  indeed,  so 
much  in  the  heart  of  the  world,  and  especially  of  my  own 
people,  who  best  know  him,  that  I  am  altogether  misprised ; 
but  it  shall  not  be  so  long  ;  this  wrestler  shall  clear  all. 
Kothing  remains,  but  that  I  kindle  the  boy  thither,  which 
now  I'll  go  about.  \^Exit. 

SCENE  II.     A  Lawn  before  the  Duke's  Palace. 
Enter  Rosalind  and  Celia. 

Cel.    I  pray  thee,  Rosalind,  sweet  my  coz,  be  merry. 
Ros.    Dear  Celia,  I  show  more  mirth  than  I  am  mistress 


A-CtL]  as   you   like   it.  585 

of;  and  would  you  yet  I  vrere  merrier?  Unless  you  could 
teach  me  to  forget  a  banished  father,  you  must  not  learn  me 
how  to  remember  any  extraordinary  pleasure. 

Oel.  Herein,  I  see,  thou  lovest  me  not  with  the  full  weight 
that  I  love  thee.  If  my  uncle,  thy  banished  father,  had 
banished  thy  uncle,  the  duke  my^  father,  so  thou  hadst  been 
still  with  me,  I  could  have  taught  my  love  to  take  thy  father 
for  mine  ;  so  would'st  thou,  if  the  truth  of  thy  love  to  me 
were  so  righteously  tempered  as  mine  is  to  thee. 

Mos.  Well,  I  will  forget  the  condition  of  my  estate,  to 
rejoice  in  yours. 

Cel.  You  know,  my  father  hath  no  child  but  I,  nor  none 
is  like  to  have ;  and,  truly,  when  he  dies,  thou  shalt  be  his 
heir ;  for  what  he  hath  taken  away  from  thy  father  perforce, 
I  will  i-ender  thee  again  in  affection.  By  mine  honor,  1 
will ;  and  when  I  break  that  oath,  let  me  turn  monster. 
Therefoi'e,  my  sweet  Rose,  my  dear  Rose,  be  merry. 

Hos.  From  henceforth  I  will,  coz,  and  devise  sports.  Let 
me  see  ;  what  think  you  of  ftilling  in  love  ? 

Oel.  Marry,  I  pr'ythee,  do,  to  make  sport  withal ;  but 
love  no  man  in  good  earnest ;  nor  no  further  in  sport  neither, 
than  with  safety  of  a  pure  blush  thou  mayst  in  honor  come 
off  again. 

Hos.    What  shall  be  our  sport  then? 

Cel.  Let  us  sit  and  mock  the  good  housewife,  Fortune, 
from  her  wheel,  that  her  gifts  may  henceforth  be  bestowed 
equally. 

Mos.  I  would  we  could  do  so  ;  for  her  benefits  are  mightily 
misplaced ;  and  the  bountiful  blind  woman  doth  most 
mistake  in  her  gifts  to  women. 

Oel.  'Tis  true ;  for  those  that  she  makes  fair,  she  scarce 
makes  honest ;  and  those  that  she  makes  honest,  she  makes 
very  ill-favoredly. 

Mos.  Nay,  now  thou  goest  from  fortune's  office  to  nature's. 
Fortune  reigns  in  gifts  of  the  world,  not  in  the  lineaments 
of  nature. 

Unter  Touchstone. 

Oel.  No  ?  When  nature  hath  made  a  fair  creature,  may 
she  not  by  fortune  fall  into  the  fire?  —  Though  nature  hath 
given  us  wit  to  flout  at  fortune,  hath  not  fortune  sent  in  this 
fool  to  cut  off  the  argument  ? 

Mos.  Indeed,  there  is  fortune  too  hard  for  natin-e ;  Avhen 
fortune  makes  nature's  natural  the  cutter  off  of  nature's  wit. 

Oel.  Peradventure,  this  is  not  fortune's  work  neither,  but 
nature's ;  who,  perceiving  our  natural  wits  too  dull  to  reason 


58t3  AS   YOU   LIKE  IT.  [Act  I 

of  such  goddesses,  hath  sent  this  natural  for  our  whetstone; 
for  uhvays  the  dulness  of  the  fool  is  the  whetstone  of  his 
wits.  —  II ow  now,  wit?  whither  wander  you? 

Touch.  Mistress,  you  must  come  away  to  your  father. 

Cel.    Were  you  made  the  messenger? 

Touch.  No,  by  mine  hori,or ;  but  I  was  bid  to  come  for  you. 

Ros.    Where  learned  you  that  oath,  fool ' 

Touch.  Of  a  certain  knight,  that  swore  by  his  honor  they 
were  good  pancakes,  and  swore  by  his  honor  the  mustard 
was  naught ;  now,  I'll  stand  to  it,  the  pancakes  were  naught, 
and  the  mustard  was  good ;  and  yet  was  not  the  knight 
forsworn. 

Oel.  How  prove  you  that,  in  the  great  heap  of  your 
knowledge  ? 

Ros.    Ay,  marry ;  now  unmuzzle  your  wisdom. 

Touch.  Stand  you  both  forth  now ;  stroke  your  chins, 
and  swear  by  your  beards  that  I  am  a  knave. 

Cel.    By  our  beards,  if  we  had  them,  theu  art. 

Touch.  By  my  knavery,  if  I  had  it,  then  I  were ;  but 
if  you  swear  by  that  that  is  not,  you  are  not  forsworn ;  no 
more  was  this  knight,  swearing  by  his  honor,  for  he  never 
had  any ;  or  if  he  had,  he  had  sworn  it  away,  before  ever 
he  saw  those  pancakes,  or  that  mustard. 

Cel.    Pr'ythee,  who  is't  that  thou  mean'st  ? 

Touch.    One  that  old  Frederick,  your  father,  loves. 

Cel.  My  father's  love  is  enough  to  honor  him.  Enough  ! 
speak  no  more  of  him ;  you'll  be  whipped  for  taxation,  one 
of  those  days. 

Touch.  The  more  pity,  that  fools  may  not  speak  wisely 
what  wise  men  do  foolishly. 

Cel.  By  my  troth,  thou  say'st  true ;  for  since  the  little 
wit  that  fools  have  was  silenced,  the  little  foolery  that  wise 
men  have  makes  a  great  show.  Here  comes  monsieur 
Le  Beau* 

Enter  Le  Beau. 

Ros.    With  his  mouth  full  of  news. 
Cel.  Which  he  will  put  on  us  as  pigeons  feed  their  young, 
Ros.    Then  shall  we  be  news-crammed. 
Cel.    All  the  better ;  we  shall  be  the  more  marketablet 
Bon  jour,  monsieur  Le  Beau.     What's  the  news" 
Le  Beau.    Fair  princess,  you  have  lost  much  good  sp^ 
Cel.    Sport  ?     Of  what  color  ? 
Le  Beau.  What  color,  madam  ?    How  shall  I  answer  you '/ 
Ros.    As  wit  and  fortune  will. 
Touch.    Or  as  the  destinies  decree. 


Act!.]  AS  YOU   LIKE  IT.  5S7 

Cel.    Well  said  ;  that  was  laid  on  with  a  trowel. 

Touch.    Nay,  if  I  keep  not  my  rank, ~ 

Ros.    Thou  losest  thy  old  smell. 

Le  Beau.  You  amaze  me,  ladies.  I  would  have  told  you 
of  good  wrestling,  which  you  have  lost  the  sight  of. 

Ros.    Yet  tell  us  the  manner  of  the  wrestling. 

Le  Beau.  I  will  tell  you  the  beginning,  and,  if  it  please 
your  ladyships,  you  may  see  the  end ;  for  the  best  is  yet  to 
do ;  and  here,  where  you  are,  they  are  coming  to  perform  it. 

Cel.    Well, —  the  beginning,  that  is  dead  and  buried. 

Le  Beau.  There  comes  an  old  man,  and  his  three  sons, 

Oel.    I  could  match  this  beginning  with  an  old  tale. 

Le  Beau.  Three  proper  young  men,  of  excellent  growth 
and  presence ; 

Ros.  With  bills  on  their  necks, — Be  it  knoivn  unto  all 
men  by  these  presents^ 

Le  Beau.  The  eldest  of  the  three  wrestled  with  Charles, 
the  duke's  wrestler ;  which  Charles  in  a  moment  threw  him, 
and  broke  three  of  his  ribs,  that  there  is  little  hope  of  life 
in  him.  So  he  served  the  second,  and  so  the  third.  Yonder 
they  lie ;  the  poor  old  man,  their  father,  making  such  pitiful 
dole  over  them,  that  all  the  beholders  take  his  part  with 
weeping. 

Ros.    Alas ! 

Touch.  But  what  is  the  sport,  monsieur,  that  the  ladies 
have  lost  ? 

Le  Beau.    Why,  this  that  I  speak  of. 

Touch.  Thus  men  may  grow  wiser  every  day !  It  is  the 
first  time  that  ever  I  heard,  breaking  of  ribs  was  sport  for 
ladies. 

Cel.    Or  I,  I  promise  thee. 

Ros.  But  is  there  any  else  longs  to  see  this  broken  music 
in  his  sides?  Is  there  yet  another  dotes  upon  rib-breaking? 
—  Shall  we  see  this  wrestling,  cousin  ? 

Le  Beau.  You  must,  if  you  stay  here ;  for  here  is  the 
place  appointed  for  the  wrestling,  and  they  are  ready  to 
perform  it. 

Cel.  Yonder,  sure,  they  are  coming.  Let  us  now  stay 
and  see  it. 

Flourish.     Enter    Duke    Frederick,    Lords,    Orlando, 
Charles,  and  Attendants. 

Duke  F.   Come  on ;  since  the  youth  will  not  be  entreated, 
his  own  peril  on  his  forwardness. 
RoK.    Is  yonder  the  man  ? 
J.e  Beau.    Even  he,  madam. 


588  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  [Act  I 

Ccl    Alas,  he  is  too  young  ;  yet  he  looks  successfully. 

Dulce  F.  IIow  now,  daughter  and  cousin  ?  are  you  crept 
hither  to  see  the  wrestling  V 

lios.    Ay,  my  liege  ;  so  please  you  give  us  leave. 

Duke  F.  You  will  take  little  delight  in  it,  I  can  tell  you, 
there  is  such  odds  in  the  men.  In  pity  of  the  challenger's 
youth,  I  would  fain  dissuade  him,  but  he  will  not  be  entreated. 
Speak  to  him,  ladies ;  see  if  you  can  move  him. 

Cel.    Call  him  hither,  good  monsieur  Le  Beau. 

Duke  F.    Do  so  ;  I'll  not  be  by.  [Duke  goes  apart. 

Le  Beau.  Monsieur  the  challenger,  the  princesses  call 
for  you. 

Orl.    I  attend  them,  with  all  respect  and  duty. 

Ros.  Young  man,  have  you  challenged  Charles  the  wrest- 
ler? 

Orl.  No,  fair  princess  ;  he  is  the  general  challenger.  I 
come  but  in,  as  others  do,  to  try  with  him  the  strength  of 
my  youth. 

Cel.  Y''oung  gentleman,  your  spirits  are  too  bold  for  your 
years.  You  have  seen  cruel  proof  of  this  man's  strength  •, 
if  you  saw  yourself  with  your  eyes,  or  knew  yourself  with 
your  judgment,  the  fear  of  your  adventure  would  counsel 
you  to  a  more  equal  enterprise.  We  pray  you,  for  your  own 
sake,  to  embrace  your  own  safety,  and  give  over  this  attempt. 

Ros.  Do,  young  sir  ;  your  reputation  shall  not  therefore 
be  misprised ;  we  will  make  it  our  suit  to  the  duke,  that  the 
wi'estling  might  not  go  forward. 

Orl.  I  beseech  you,  punish  me  not  with  your  hard 
thoughts ;  wherein  I  confess  me  much  guilty,  to  deny  so 
fair  and  excellent  ladies  any  thing.  But  let  your  fair  eyes 
and  gentle  wishes  go  with  me  to  my  trial ;  wherein,  if  I 
be  foiled,  there  is  but  one  shamed  that  was  never  gracious ; 
if  killed,  but  one  dead  that  is  willing  to  be  so.  I  shall  do 
my  friends  no  wrong,  for  I  have  none  to  lament  me ;  the 
world  no  injury,  for  in  it  I  have  nothing,  only  in  the  world 
I  fill  up  a  place,  which  may  be  better  supplied  when  I  have 
made  it  empty. 

Ros.    The  little  strength  that  I  have,  I  would  it  were  with 

you. 

Cel.    And  mine,  to  eke  out  hers. 

Ros.    Fare  you  well.    Pray  Heaven,  I  be  deceived  in  you ! 

Cel.    Your  heart's  desires  be  with  you. 

Cha.  Come,  where  is  this  young  gallant,  that  is  so  desi 
rous  to  lie  with  his  mother  earth  ? 

Orl.  Ready,  sii  ;  but  his  will  hath  in  it  a  more  modest 
working. 


Act  r.]  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  589 

JJuke  F.    You  shall  try  but  one  fall. 

Cha.  No,  I  warrant  your  grace  ;  you  shall  not  entreat 
him  to  a  second,  that  have  so  mightily  persuaded  him  from 
a  first. 

Orl.  You  mean  to  mock  me  after ;  you  should  not  have 
mocked  me  before ;  but  come  your  ways. 

Ros.    Now,  Hercules  be  thy  speed,  young  man  ! 

Cel.  I  would  I  were  invisible,  to  catch  the  strong  fellow 
by  the  leg.  [Cha.  and  Orl.  tcrestle. 

Ros.    0  excellent  young  man ! 

Cel.  If  I  had  a  thunderbolt  in  mine  eye,  I  can  tell  who 
should  down.  [Charles  is  throivn.     Shout. 

Duke  F.    No  more,  no  more. 

Orl.  Yes,  I  beseech  your  grace ;  I  am  not  yet  well 
breathed. 

Duke  F.    How  dost  thou,   Charles  ? 

Le  Beau.    He  cannot  speak,  my  lord. 

Duke  F.    Bear  him  away.  [Charles  is  home  out. 

What  is  thy  name,  young  man  ? 

Orl.  Orlando,  my  liege,  the  youngest  son  of  sir  Rowland 
de  Bois. 

Duke  F.    I  would  thou  hadst  been  son  to  some  man  else. 
The  world  esteemed  thy  father  honorable. 
But  I  did  find  him  still  mine  enemy. 
Thou  shouldst  have  better  pleased  me  with  this  deed, 
Hadst  thou  descended  from  another  house. 
But  fare  thee  well ;  thou  art  a  gallant  youth ; 
I  would  thou  hadst  told  me  of  another  father, 

[^Exeunt  Duke  Fred.,  Train,  and  Le  Beau. 

Cel.    Were  I  my  father,   coz,  would  I  do  this  ? 

Orl.    I  am  more  proud  to  be  sir  Rowland's  son, 
His  youngest  son ;  —  and  would  not  change  that  calling. 
To  be  adopted  heir  to  Frederick. 

Ros.    My  father  loved  sir  Rowland  as  his  soul, 
And  all  the  world  was  of  my  father's  mind. 
Had  I  before  known  this  young  man  his  son, 
I  should  have  given  him  tears  unto  entreaties, 
Ere  he  should  thus  have  ventured. 

Cel.  Gentle  cousin, 

Let  us  go  thank  him,  and  encourage  him. 
My  father's  rough  and  envious  disposition 
Sticks  me  at  heart. —  Sir,  you  have  well  deserved; 
If  you  do  keep  your  promises  in  love 
But  justly,  as  you  have  exceeded  all  promise. 
Your  mistress  shall  be  happy. 

Ro%.  Gentleman, 

\_Givinq  Mm  a  chair,  from  her  neck 
2z 


590  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  [Act  1 

Wear  tliis  for  me ;  one  out  of  suits  with  fortune : 

That  of^nld  give  more,  but  that  her  hand  lacks  means  — 

Shall  V.  V.'  go,  coz? 

Cel.  Ay.  —  Fare  you  well,  fair  gentleman. 

Orl.    Can  I  not  say,  I  thank  you  ?     My  better  parts 
Are  all  thrown  down,  and  that  Avhich  here  stands  up, 
Is  but  a  quintain,  a  mere  lifeless  block. 

Ro8.    He  calls  us  back  ;  my  pride  fell  with  my  fortunes ; 
I'll  ask  him  what  he  would,  —  Did  you  call,  sir  ? — 
Sir,  you  have  wrestled  well,  and  overthrown 
More  than  your  enemies. 

Oel.  Will  you  go,  coz  ? 

Ros.    Have  with  you.  —  Fare  you  well. 

\_Exeunt  Rosalind  and  Celia. 

Orl.    What  passion  hangs  these  weights  upon  my  tongue? 
I  cannot  speak  to  her,  yet  she  urged  conference. 

Re-enter  Le  Beau. 

0  poor  Orlando!     Thou  art  overthrown; 

Or  Charles,  or  something  weaker,  masters  thee. 

Le  Beau.    Good  sir,  I  do  in  friendship  counsel  you 
To  leave  this  place.     Albeit  you  have  deserved 
High  commendation,  true  applause,  and  love ; 
Yet  such  is  now  the  duke's  condition, 
That  he  misconstrues  all  that  you  have  done. 
The  duke  is  humorous ;  what  he  is,  indeed. 
More  suits  you  to  conceive,  than  me  to  speak  of. 

Orl.    I  thank  you,  sir ;  and,  pray  you,  tell  me  this : 
Which  of  the  two  was  daughter  of  the  duke, 
That  here  was  at  the  wrestling  ? 

Le  Beau.   Neither  his  daughter,  if  we  judge  by  manners ; 
But  yet,  indeed,  the  smaller  is  his  daughter. 
The  other  is  daughter  to  the  banished  duke, 
And  here  detained  by  her  usurping  uncle. 
To  keep   his  daughter  company ;  whose  loves 
Are  dearer  than  the  natural  bond  of  sisters. 
But  I  can  tell  you  that  of  late  this  duke 
Hath  ta'en  displeasure  'gainst  his  gentle  niece; 
Grounded  upon  no  other  argument. 
But  that  the  people  praise  her  for  her  virtues, 
And  pity  her  for  her  good  father's  sake ; 
And  on  my  life,  his  malice  'gainst  the  lady 
Will  suddenly  break  forth.  —  Sir,  fare  you  well ; 
Hereafter,  in  a  better  world  than  this, 

1  shall  desire  more  love  and  knowledge  of  you. 
Orl.    I  rest  much  bounden  to  you ;  fare  you  well ! 

[Exit  Le  Beau. 


A-ctI]  as  you   like   it.  591 

Thus  must  I  from  the  smoke  into  the  smothei  ; 

From  tyrant  duke,  unto  a  tyrant  brother. — 

But  heavenly  Rosalind  !  \Exit. 

SCENE  III.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Celia  and  Rosalind. 

Cel.  Why,  cousin ;  why,  Rosalind  ;  —  Cupid  have  mercy ! 
Not  a  word  ? 

Ros.    Not  one  to  throw  at  a  dog. 

Cel.  No,  thy  words  are  too  precious  to  be  cast  away  upon 
curs ;  throw  some  of  them  at  me ;  come,  lame  me  with 
reasons. 

Ros.  Then  there  were  two  cousins  laid  up ;  when  the  one 
should  be  lamed  with  reasons,  and  the  other  mad  without 
any. 

Cel.    But  is  all  this  for  your  father? 

Ros.  No,  some  of  it  for  my  child's  father.  0  how  full 
of  briers  is  this  working-day  world ! 

Cel.  They  are  but  burs,  cousin,  thrown  upon  thee  in 
holiday  foolery ;  if  we  walk  not  in  the  trodden  paths,  our 
very  petticoats  will  catch  them. 

Ros.  I  could  shake  them  off  my  coat ;  these  burs  are  in 
my  heart. 

Cel.    Hem  them  away. 

Ros.    I  would  try;  if  I  could  cry  hem,  and  have  him. 

Cel.    Come,  come,  wrestle  with  thy  affections. 

Ros.  0,  they  take  the  part  of  a  better  wrestler  than 
myself. 

Cel.  0,  a  good  wish  upon  you !  You  will  try  in  time, 
in  despite  of  a  fall. — But  turning  these  jests  out  of  service, 
let  us  talk  in  good  earnest.  Is  it  possible,  on  such  a  sudden, 
you  should  fall  into  so  strong  a  liking  with  old  sir  Rowland's 
youngest  son  ? 

Ros.    The  duke,  my  father,  loved  his  father  dearly. 

Cel.  Doth  it  therefore  ensue,  that  you  should  love  his  son 
dearly  ?  By  this  kind  of  chase,  I  should  hate  him,  for  my 
father  hated  his  father  dearly ;  yet  I  hate  not  Orlando. 

Ros.    No,   'faith,  hate  him  not,  for  my  sake. 

Gel.  Why  should  I  not  ?     Doth  he  not  deserve  well  ? 

Ros.  Let  me  love  him  for  that ;  and  do  you  love  him, 
because  I  do.  —  Look,  here  comes  the  duke. 

Gel.    With  his  eyes  full  of  anger. 


592  AS   YOU   LIKE  IT.  [Act  1 

Enter  Duke  Frederick,  with  Lords. 

Duke  F.    Mistress,  despatch  you  "with  your  safest  haste, 
And  get  you  from  our  court, 

Ros.  Me,  uncle? 

Duke  F.  You,   cousin ; 

Within  these  ten  days  if  that  thou  be'st  found 
So  near  our  public  court  as  twenty  miles. 
Thou  diest  for  it. 

Ros.  I  do  beseech  your  grace, 

Let  me  the  knowledge  of  my  fault  bear  with  me. 
If  with  myself  I  hold  intelligence, 
Or  have  acquaintance  Avith  mine  own  desires; 
If  that  I  do  not  dream,  or  be  not  frantic, 
(As  I  do  trust  I  am  not,)  then,  dear  uncle. 
Never,  so  much  as  in  a  thought  unborn. 
Did  I  offend  your  highness. 

Dake  F.  Thus  do  all  traitors ; 

If  their  purgation  did  consist  in  words. 
They  are  as  innocent  as  grace  itself. — 
Let  it  suffice  thee,  that  I  trust  thee  not. 

Mos.    Yet  your  mistrust  cannot  make  me  a  traitor : 
Tell  me  whereon  the  likelihood  depends. 

Duke  F.  Thou  art  thy  father's  daughter  ;  there's  enough. 

Ros.    So  was  I  when  your  highness  took  his  dukedom ; 
So  was  I  when  your  highness  banished  him. 
Treason  is  not  inherited,  my  lord ; 
Or,  if  we  did  derive  it  from  our  friends. 
What's  that  to  me  ?     My  father  was  no  traitor.       ^ 
Then,  good  my  liege,  mistake  me  not  so  much, 
To  think  my  poverty  is  treacherous. 

Cel.    Dear  sovereign,  hear  me  speak. 

Duke  F.    Ay,  Celia ;  we  stayed  her  for  your  sake, 
Else  had  she  with  her  father  ranged  along. 

Cel.    I  did  not  then  entreat  to  have  her  stay; 
It  was  your  pleasure  and  your  own  remorse. 
I  was  too  young  that  time  to  value  her. 
But  now  I  know  her :  if  she  be  a  traitor, 
Why  so  am  I ;  we  still  have  slept  together, 
Kose  at  an  instant,  learned,  played,  ate  together, 
And  wheresoe'er  we  went,  like  Juno's  swans, 
Still  we  went  coupled,  and  inseparable. 

Duke  F.  She  is  too  subtle  for  thee ;  and  her  smoothness, 
Her  very  silence,  and  her  patience, 
Speak  to  the  people,  and  they  pity  her. 
Thou  art  a  fool :  she  robs  thee  of  thy  name ; 


Act  L]  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  593 

And  thou  wilt  show  more  bright,  and  seem  more  virtuous, 

When  she  is  gone.     Then  open  not  thy  lips  ; 

Firm  and  irrevocable  is  my  doom 

Which  I  have  passed  upon  her ;  she  is  banished. 

Oel.    Pronounce  that  sentence  then  on  me,  my  liege. 
I  cannot  live  out  of  her  company. 

Duke  F.    You  are  a  fool. — You,  niece,  provide  yourself; 
If  you  outstay  the  time,  upon  mine  honor. 
And  in  the  greatness  of  my  word,  you  die. 

[Exeunt  Duke  Frederick  and  Lords. 
Cel.    0  my  poor  Rosalind  I  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 
Wilt  thou  change  fathers  ?     I  will  give  thee  mine. 
I  charge  thee,  be  not  thou  more  grieved  than  I  am. 
Ros.    I  have  more  cause. 

Oel.  Thou  hast  not,  cousin ; 

Pr'ythee,  be  cheerful.     Know'st  thou  not,  the  duke 
Hath  banished  me,  his  daughter? 

Ros.  That  he  hath  not. 

Gel.    No?     Hath  not?     Rosalind  lacks  then  the  love 
Which  teacheth  me  that  thou  and  I  are  one. 
Shall  we  be  sundered?     Shall  we  part,  sweet  girl? 
No ;  let  my  father  seek  another  heir. 
Therefore  devise  with  me  how  we  may  fly. 
Whither  to  go,  and  what  to  bear  with  us; 
And  do  not  seek  to  take  your  change  upon  you, 
To  bear  your  griefs  yourself,  and  leavt  me  out; 
For,  by  this  heaven,  now  at  our  sorrows  pale, 
Say  what  thou  canst,  I'll  go  along  with  thee. 
Ros.    Why,  whither  shall  we  go  ? 
Cel.    To  seek  my  uncle  in  the  forest  of  Arden. 
Ros.    Alas,  what  danger  will  it  be  to  us, 
Maids  as  we  are,  to  travel  forth  so  far ! 
Beauty  provoketh  thieves  sooner  than  gold. 

Cel.    I'll  put  myself  in  poor  and  mean  attire» 
And  with  a  kind  of  umber  smirch  my  face. 
The  like  do  you;  so  shall  we  pass  along, 
And  never  stir  assailants. 

Ros.  Were  it  not  better, 

Because  that  I  am  more  than  common  tall, 
That  I  did  suit  me  all  points  like  a  man? 
A  gallant  curtle-axe  upon  my  thigh, 
A  boar-spear  in  my  hand;  and  (in  my  heart 
Lie  there  what  hidden  woman's  fear  there  will) 
We'll  have  a  swashing  and  a  martial  outside; 
As  many  other  mannish  cowards  have, 
That  do  outface  it  with  their  semblances. 
Vol.  L  — 38  2z* 


594  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  [Act  II 

Cel,    What  shall  I  call  thee,  when  thou  art  a  man  ? 

Ros.    I'll  have  no  -worse  a  name  than  Jove  s  own  page. 
And  therefore,  look  you,  call  me  Ganymede. 
But  what  will  you  be  called  ? 

Cel.    Something  that  hath  a  reference  to  my  state ; 
No  longer  Celia,  but  Aliena. 

Ros.    But,  cousin,  what  if  we  assayed  to  steal 
The  clownish  fool  out  of  your  father's  court  ? 
Would  he  not  be  a  comfort  to  our  travel  ? 

Cel.    He'll  go  along  o'er  the  wide  world  with  me ; 
Leave  me  alone  to  woo  him.     Let's  away. 
And  get  our  jewels  and  our  wealth  together; 
Devise  the  fittest  time,  and  safest  way 
To  hide  us  from  pursuit  that  will  be  made 
After  my  flight.     Now  go  we,  in  content,. 
To  liberty,  and  not  to  banishment.  \Exeunt 


ACT    II. 

SCENE  I.      The  Forest  of  Arden. 

Enter  Duke  senior,  Amiens,  ayid  other  Lords,  in  the  dreu 
of  Foresters. 

Duke  S.    Now,  my  co-mates,  and  brothers  in  exile, 
Hath  not  old  custom  made  this  life  more  sweet 
Than  that  of  painted  pomp  ?     Are  not  these  woods 
More  free  from  peril  than  the  envious  court? 
Here  feel  we  not  the  penalty  of  Adam, 
The  seasons'  difference ;  as  the  icy  fang. 
And  churlish  chiding  of  the  winter's  wind. 
Which  when  it  bites  and  blows  upon  my  body, 
Even  till  I  shrink  with  cold,  I  smile,  and  say, — 
This  is  no  flattery ;  these  are  counsellors, 
That  feelingly  persuade  me  what  I  am. 
Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity  ; 
Which,  like  the  toad,  ugly  and  venomous, 
Wears  yet  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head ; 
And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt, 
Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  every  thing. 

Ami.    I  would  not  change  it.     Happy  is  your  grace. 
That  can  translate  the  stubbornness  of  fortune 
fnto  so  '][uiet  and  so  sweet  a  style. 


Aci  II.]  AS  YOU   LIKE   IT.  596 

Du.ke  S.    Come,  shall  we  go  and  kill  us  venison? 
And  yet  it  irks  me,  the  poor  dappled  fools, — 
Being  native  burghers  of  this  desert  city, — 
Should,  in  their  own  confines,  with  forked  heads 
Have  their  round  haunches  gored. 

1  Lord.  Indeed,  my  lord, 

The  melancholy  Jaques  grieves  at  that ; 
And,  in  that  kind,  swears  you  do  more  usurp 
Than  doth  your  brother  that  hath  banished  you. 
To-day,  my  lord  of  Amiens,  and  myself, 
Did  steal  behind  him  as  he  lay  along 
Under  an  oak,  whose  antique  root  peeps  out 
Upon  the  brook  that  brawls  along  this  wood; 
To  the  which  place  a  poor  sequestered  stag. 
That  from  the  hunter's  aim  had  ta'en  a  hurt, 
Did  come  to  languish ;  and,  indeed,  my  lord. 
The  wretched  animal  heaved  forth  such  groans, 
That  their  discharge  did  stretch  his  leathern  coat 
Almost  to  bursting ;  and  the  big  round  tears 
Coursed  one  another  down  his  innocent  nose 
In  piteous  chase  ;  and  thus  the  hairy  fool, 
Much  marked  of  the  melancholy  Jaques, 
Stood  on  the  extremest  verge  of  the  swift  brook, 
Augmenting  it  with  teai'S. 

Buke  S.  But  what  said  Jaques' 

Did  he  not  moralize  this  spectacle  ? 

1  Lord.    0  yes,  into  a  thousand  similes. 
First,  for  his  weeping  in  the  needless  stream ; 
Poor  deer.,  quoth  he,  thou  mak'st  a  testament 
An  worldlings  do,  giving  thy  sum  of  more 
To  that  tohich  had  too  much.     Then,  being  alone, 
Left  and  abandoned  of  his  velvet  friends ; 
'Tis  right,  quoth  he;  this  misery  doth  part 
The  flux  of  company.     Anon,  a  careless  herd 
Full  of  the  pasture,  jumps  along  by  him. 
And  never  stays  to  greet  him  ;  Ay,  quoth  Jaquea, 
Stveep  on,  you  fat  and  greasy  citizens ; 
'  Tis  just  the  fashion.      Wherefore  do  you  look 
Upon  that  poor  and  broken  bankrupt  there  ? 
Thus  most  invectively  he  picrceth  through 
The  body  of  the  country,  city,  court, 
Yea,  and  of  this  our  life ;  swearing  that  we 
Are  mere  usurpers,  tyrants,  and  what's  worse. 
To  fright  the  animals,  and  to  kill  them  up, 
In  their  assigned  and  native  dwelling-place. 

Duke  S.    And  did  you  leave  him  in  this  contemplation ! 


596  AS   YOT:   like  IT.  [Act  U 

2  Lord.    We  did,  my  lord,  weeping  and  commenting 
Upon  the  sobbing  deer. 

Duke  S.  Show  me  the  place ; 

I  love  to  cope  him  in  these  sullen  fits, 
For  then  he's  full  of  matter. 

2  Lord.    I'll  bring  you  to  him  straight.  [^Uxeunt. 


SCENE  II.     A  Boom  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Duke  Frederick,  Lords,  and  Attendants. 

Duhe  F.    Can  it  be  possible  that  no  man  saw  them? 
It  cannot  be ;  some  villains  of  my  court 
Are  of  consent  and  sufferance  in  this. 

1  Lord.    I  cannot  hear  of  any  that  did  see  her. 
The  ladies,  her  attendants  of  her  chamber, 

Saw  her  abed;  and,  in  the  morning  early. 

They  found  the  bed  untreasured  of  their  mistress. 

2  Lord.    My  lord,  the  roynish  clown,  at  Avhom  so  oft 
Your  grace  was  wont  to  laugh,  is  also  missing. 
Hesperia,  the  princess'  gentlewoman, 

Confesses,  that  she  secretly  o'erheard 

Your  daughter  and  her  cousin  much  commend 

The  parts  and  graces  of  the  wrestler 

That  did  but  lately  foil  the  sinewy  Charles ; 

And  she  believes,  wherever  they  are  gone, 

That  youth  is  surely  in  their  company. 

Duke  F.    Send  to  his  brother ;  fetch  that  gallant  hither ; 
If  he  be  absent,  bring  his  brother  to  me ; 
I'll  make  him  find  him.     Do  this  suddenly ; 
And  let  not  search  and  inquisition  quail 
To  bring  again  these  foolish  runaways.  \Exeunt 

SCENE  III.     Before  Oliver's  Rouse. 

Fnter  Orlando  and  Adam,  meeting. 

Orl.    Who's  there  ? 

Adam.    What,  my  young  master  ? — 0,  my  gentle  master 
0,  my  sweet  master,   0,  you  memory 
Of  old  sir  Rowland  !     Why,  what  make  you  here  ? 
Why  are  you  virtuous?     Why  do  people  love  you? 
And  wherefore  are  you  gentle,  strong,  and  valiant  ? 
Why  would  you  be  so  fond  to  overcome 
The  bony  pris-^'r  of  the  humorous  duke  ? 
Your  praise  is  come  too  swiftly  home  before  you. 


Act  II.]  AS   YOU  LIKE   IT.  597 

Know  you  n<^t,  master,  to  some  kind  of  men 

Their  graces  serve  them  but  as  enemies  ? 

No  more  do  yours;  your  virtues,  gentle  master, 

Are  sanctified  and  holy  traitors  to  3  ou. 

0,  what  a  world  is  this,  when  what  is  comely 

Envenoms  him  that  bears  it ! 

Orl.    Why,  what's  the  matter? 

Adam.  0,  unhappy  youth, 

Come  not  within  these  doors ;  within  this  roof 
The  enemy  of  all  your  graces  lives. 
Your  brother  —  (no,  no  brother :  yet  the  son  — 
Yet  not  the  son ;  — I  Avill  not  call  him  son 
Of  him  I  was^about  to  call  his  father,)  — 
Hath  heard  your  praises ;  and  this  night  he  means 
To  burn  the  lodging  where  you  use  to  lie 
And  you  within  it.     If  he  fail  of  that, 
He  will  have  other  means  to  cut  you  off. 
I  overheard  him,  and  his  practices. 
This  is  no  place,  this  house  is  but  a  butchery; 
Abhor  it,  fear  it,  do  not  enter  it. 

Orl.    Why,  whither,  Adam,  wouldst  thou  have  me  go  ? 

Adam.    No  matter  whither,  so  you  come  not  here. 

07-1.    What,  wouldst  thou  have  me  go  and  beg  my  food? 
Or  with  a  base  and  boisterous  sword  enforce 
A  thievish  living  on  the  common  road? 
This  I  must  do,  or  know  not  what  to  do ; 
Yet  this  I  will  not  do,  do  how  I  can. 
I  rather  will  subject  me  to  the  malice 
Of  a  diverted  blood,  and  bloody  brother. 

Adam.    But  do  not  so.     I  have  five  hundred  crowns, 
The  thrifty  hire  I  saved  under  your  father, 
Which  I  did  store,  to  be  my  foster-nurse, 
When  service  should  in  my  old  limbs  lie  lame, 
And  unregarded  age,  in  corners  thrown. 
Take  that;  and  He  that  doth  the  ravens  feed. 
Yea,  providently  caters  for  the  sparrow. 
Be  comfort  to  my  age  !     Here  is  the  gold ; 
All  this  I  give  you.     Let  me  be  your  servant; 
Though  I  look  old,  yet  I  am  strong  and  lusty; 
For  in  my  youth  I  never  did  apply 
Hot  and  rebellious  liquors  in  my  blood; 
Nor  did  not  with  unbashful  forehead  woo 
The  means  of  weakness  and  debility ; 
Therefore  my  age  is  as  a  lusty  winter, 
Frosty,  but  kindly.     Let  me  go  with  you ; 


698  A  S   y  0  U   L  T  K  E   I T.  [Act  Q 

I'll  do  thi;  Hervice  of  a  younger  man 
In  all  your  business  and  necessities. 

Orl.    0  good  old  man ;  how  well  in  thee  appears 
The  constant  service  of  the  antique  Avorld, 
When  service  sweat  for  duty,  not  for  meed ! 
Thou  art  not  for  the  fashion  of  these  times, 
Where  none  will  sweat,  but  for  promotion; 
And  having  that,  do  choke  their  service  up 
Even  with  the  having :  it  is  not  so  with  thee ; 
But,  poor  old  man,  thou  prun'st  a  rotten  tree, 
That  cannot  so  much  as  a  blossom  yield, 
In  lieu  of  all  thy  pains  and  husbandry. 
But  come  thy  ways,  we'll  go  along  together ; 
And  ere  we  have  thy  youthful  wages  spefit. 
We'll  light  upon  some  settled  low  content. 

Adam.    Master,  go  on,  and  I  will  follow  thee, 
To  the  last  gasp,  with  truth  and  loyalty. — 
From  seventeen  years,  till  now  almost  fourscore, 
Here  lived  I,  but  now  live  here  no  more. 
At  seventeen  years  many  their  fortunes  seek ; 
But  at  fourscore,  it  is  too  late  a  Aveek. 
Yet  fortune  cannot  recompense  me  better. 
Than  to  die  well,  and  not  my  master's  debtor.  [Exeunt 


SCENE  lY.     Tlie  Forest  of  Arden. 

Enter  Rosalind  in  hoy's  clothes,  Celia  dressed  like  a,  Shep- 
herdess, and  Touchstone. 

Ros.    0  Jupiter !  how  weary  are  my  spirits ! 

Touch.  I  care  not  for  my  spirits,  if  my  legs  were  not 
weary. 

Ros.  I  could  find  in  my  heart  to  disgrace  my  man's  ap- 
parel, and  to  cry  like  a  woman ;  but  I  must  comfort  the 
weaker  vessel,  as  doublet  and  hose  ought  to  show  itself 
courageous  to  petticoat ;  therefore,  courage,  good  Aliena. 

Cel.    I  pray  you,  bear  with  me ;  I  can  go  no  farther. 

Touch.  For  my  part,  I  had  rather  bear  with  you  than 
bear  you ;  yet  I  should  bear  no  cross,  if  I  did  bear  you ; 
for,  I  think,  you  have  no  money  in  your  purse. 

Ros.    Well,  this  is  the  forest  of  Arden. 

Touch.  Ay,  now  am  I  in  Arden.  The  more  fool  I. 
When  I  was  at  home,  I  was  in  a  better  place;  but  trivellers 
must  be  content. 

Ros.  Ay,  be  so,  good  Touchstone. — Look  you  who  comes 
here ;  a  young  man,  and  an  old,  in  solemn  talk. 


AcTll.J  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  599 

Enter  Corin  and  SiLvius. 

Cor.    That  is  the  way  to  make  her  scorn  j  »u  still. 

Sil.    0   Corin.  that  thou  knew'st  how  I  do  love  her! 

Cor.    I  partly  guess;  for  I  have  loved  ere  now. 

Sil.    No,   Corin,  being  old,  thou  canst  not  guess. 
Though  in  thy  youth  thou  wast  as  true  a  lover 
As  ever  sighed  upon  a  midnight  pillow ; 
But  if  thy  love  were  ever  like  to  mine, 
(As  sure  I  think  did  never  man  love  so,^ 
How  many  actions  most  ridiculous 
Hast  thou  been  drawn  to  by  thy  fantasy  ? 

Cor.    Into  a  thousand  that  I  have  forgotten. 

Sil.    0  thou  didst  then  ne'er  love  so  heartily- 
If  thou  remember'st  not  the  slightest  folly 
That  ever  love  did  make  thee  run  into, 
Thou  hast  not  loved. 
Or  if  thou  hast  not  sat,  as  I  do  now, 
Wearying  thy  hearer  in  thy  mistress'  praise, 
Thou  hast  not  loved. 

Or  if  thou  hast  not  broke  from  company, 
Abruptly,  as  my  passion  now  makes  me, 
Thou  hast  not  loved.     0  Phebe,  Phebe,  Phebe! 

\_Exit  SiLVIUS. 

Ros.  Alas,  poor  shepherd !  searching  of  thy  wound,  1 
have  by  hard  adventure  found  mine  own. 

Touch.  And  I  mine.  I  remember,  when  I  was  in  love, 
I  broke  my  sword  upon  a  stone,  and  bid  him  take  that  for 
coming  anight  to  Jane  Smile ;  and  I  remember  the  kissing 
of  her  batlet,  and  the  cow's  dugs  that  her  pretty  chopped 
hands  had  milked  ;  and  I  remember  the  wooing  of  a  peascod 
instead  of  her  ;  from  whom  I  took  two  cods,  and  giving  her 
them  again,  said,  with  weeping  tears.  Wear  these  for  my 
sake.  We,  that  are  true  lovers,  run  into  strange  capers ; 
but  as  all  is  mortal  in  nature,  so  is  all  nature  in  love  mortal 
in  folly. 

Ros.    Thou  speak'st  wiser  than  thou  art  'ware  of. 

Touch.  Nay,  I  shall  ne'er  be  'ware  of  mine  own  wit,  till 
i  break  my  sliins  against  it. 

Ros.    Jove  !  Jove  !  this  shepherd's  passion 
Is  much  upon  my  fasluon. 

Touch.    And  mine;  but  it  grows  something  stale  with  me. 

Cel.    I  pray  you,  one  of  you  question  'ycr.d  man, 
If  he  for  gold  Avill  give  us  any  food ; 
I  faint  almost  to  death. 

Touch.    Holla ;  you,  clown  I 


600  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  [Act  II 

Ros.  Peace,  fool !  he's  not  my  kinsman. 

Cor.    Who  calls? 

Touch.    Your  betters,  sir. 

Cor.    Else  are  they  very  wretched. 

Bos.  Peace,  I  say. 

Good  even  to  you,  friend. 

Cor.    And  to  you,  gentle  sir,  and  to  you  all, 

Hos.    I  pr'ythee,  shepherd,  if  that  love,  or  gold. 
Can  in  this  desert  place  buy  entertainment. 
Bring  us  where  we  may  rest  ourselves,   and  feed. 
Here's  a  young  maid  with  travel  much  oppressed, 
And  faints  for  succor. 

Cor.  Fair  sir,  I  pity  her. 

And  wish  for  her  sake,  more  than  for  mine  own 
My  fortunes  were  more  able  to  relieve  her ; 
But  I  am  shepherd  to  another  man. 
And  do  not  shear  the  fleeces  that  I  graze. 
My  master  is  of  churlish  disposition, 
And  little  recks  to  find  the  way  to  heaven 
By  doing  deeds  of  hospitality. 
Besides,  his  cote,  his  flocks,  and  bounds  of  feed, 
Are  now  on  sale,  and  at  our  sheepcote  now. 
By  reason  of  his  absence,  there  is  nothing 
That  you  will  feed  on ;  but  what  is,  come  see, 
And  in  my  voice  most  welcome  shall  you  be. 

Mos.    AYhat  is  he  that  shall  buy  his  flock  and  pasture  ? 

Car.    That  young  swain  that  you  saw  here  but  erewhile, 
That  little  cares  for  buying  any  thing. 

Jios.  I  pray  thee,  if  it  stand  with  honesty. 
Buy  thou  the  cottage,  pasture,  and  the  flock, 
And  thou  shalt  have  to  pay  for  it  of  us. 

Cel.    And  we  will  mend  thy  wages.     I  like  this  place, 
And  willingly  could  waste  my  time  in  it. 

Cor.    Assuredly,  the  thing  is  to  be  sold. 
Go  with  me ;  if  you  like,  upon  report. 
The  soil,  the  profit,  and  this  kind  of  life, 
I  will  your  very  faithful  feeder  be. 
And  buy  it  with  your  gold  right  suddenly.  lUziunt 

SCENE  V.     The  same. 
Enter  Amiens,  Jaques,  and  others. 

SONG. 

Ami.    Under  the  greenwood  tree, 
Wlio  loves  to  lie  with  me. 
And  turn  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 


Act  II.]  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT.  601 

Corae  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither: 

Sere  shall  he  see 

No  enemy, 
But  ivinter  and  rough  weather. 

Jaq.    More,  more,  I  pr'ytliee,  more. 

Ami.    It  will  make  you  melancholy,  monsieur  Jaquea. 

Jaq.  I  thank  it.  More,  I  pr'ythee,  more.  I  can  su:k 
melancholy  out  of  a  song,  as  a  weasel  sucks  eggs.  More,  1 
pr'ythee,  more. 

Ami.    My  voice  is  ragged  ;  I  know,  I  cannot  please  you. 

Jaq.  I  do  not  desire  you  to  please  me,  I  do  desire  you 
to  sing.  Come,  more ;  another  stanza.  Call  you  them 
stanzas  ? 

Ami.    What  you  will,  monsieur  Jaques. 

Jaq.  Nay,  I  care  not  for  their  names ;  they  owe  me 
nothing.     Will  you  sing  ? 

Ami.    More  at  your  request,  than  to  please  myself. 

Jaq.  Well  then,  if  ever  I  thank  any  man,  I'll  thank  you: 
but  that  they  call  compliment,  is  like  the  encounter  of  two 
dog-apes ;  and  when  a  man  thanks  me  heartily,  methinks  I 
have  given  him  a  penny,  and  he  renders  me  the  beggarly 
thanks.  Come,  sing ;  and  you  that  will  not,  hold  your 
tongues. 

Ami.  Well,  I'll  end  the  song. —  Sirs,  cover  the  while ; 
the  duke  will  drink  under  this  tree. — He  hath  been  all  this 
day  to  look  you. 

Jaq.  And  I  have  been  all  this  day  to  avoid  him.  He  is 
too  disputable  for  my  company.  I  think  of  as  many  matters 
as  he ;  but  I  give  Heaven  thanks,  and  make  no  boast  of 
them.     Come,  warble,  come. 

SONG. 

Wlio  doth  ambition  shun,        [All  together  here. 
And  loves  to  live  i    the  sun, 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats, 
And  pleased  with  what  he  gets. 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither ; 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy, 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Jaq.    I'll  give  you  a  verse  to  this  note,  that  I  made  yes* 
terday  in  despite  of  my  invention. 
Ami,    And  I'll  sing  it. 
Jaq.    Thus  it  goes: 

3a 


«02  AS  YOU   LIKE   IT.  [Act  II 

If  it  do  come  to  pass, 

That  any  man  turn  ass, 

Leavivg  Ms  tvealth  and  ease, 

A  stubborn  will  to  please, 
Ducdame,  ducdame,  ducdame; 

Here  shall  he  see 

Gross  fools  as  he 
An  if  he  ivill  come  to  me. 

Ami.    What's  that  ducdame  ? 

Jaq.  'Tis  a  Greek  invocation,  to  call  fools  into  a  circle 
I'll  go  sleep  if  I  can ;  if  I  cannot,  I'll  rail  against  all  the 
first-born  of  Egypt. 

Ami.  And  I'll  go  seek  the  duke  ;  his  banquet  is  prepared. 

\_ExeiLnt  severally. 

SCENE  VI.     The  same. 
JEnter  Orlando  and  Adam. 

Adam..  Dear  master,  I  can  go  no  farther.  0,  I  die  for 
food !  Here  lie  I  down,  and  measure  out  my  grave.  Fare- 
well, kind  master. 

Orl.  Why,  how  now,  Adam  !  No  greater  heart  in  thee  ? 
Live  a  little  ;  comfort  a  little  ;  cheer  thyself  a  little  ;  if  this 
uncouth  forest  yield  anything  savage,  I  will  either  be  food 
for  it,  or  bring  it  for  food  to  thee.  Thy  conceit  is  nearer 
death  than  thy  powers.  For  my  sake,  be  comfortable ;  hold 
death  awdiile  at  the  arm's  end.  I  will  here  be  with  thee 
presently  ;  and  if  I  bring  thee  not  something  to  eat,  I'll 
give  thee  leave  to  die ;  but  if  thou  diest  before  I  come,  thou 
art  a  mocker  of  my  labor.  Well  said  !  Thou  look'st  cheerily : 
and  I'll  be  with  thee  quickly. — Yet  thou  liest  in  the  bleak 
air.  Come,  I  will  bear  thee  to  some  shelter ;  and  thou  shalt 
not  die  for  lack  of  a  dinner,  if  there  live  any  thing  in  this 
desert.     Cheerily,  good  Adam  !  [IJxeunt 

SCENE  VII.     The  same.     A  Table  set  out. 
Enter  Duke  senior,  Amiens,  Lords,  and  others. 

Duhe  S.    I  think  he  be  transformed  into  a  beast; 
For  I  can  no  where  find  him  like  a  man. 

1  Lord.    My  lord,  he  is  but  even  now  gone  hence. 
Here  was  he  merry,  hearing  of  a  song. 

Duke  8.    If  he,  compact  of  jars,  grow  musical, 
We  shall  have  shortly  discord  in  the  spheres. — 
Go,  seek  him ;  tell  him  I  would  speak  with  him. 


Act  11]  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT.  603 

Enter  Jaques. 

1  Lord.    He  saves  my  labor  by  his  own  approach 

Duke  S.    Why,  how  now,  monsieur !     What  a  life  is  this, 
That  your  poor  friends  must  woo  your  company? 
What !  you  look  merrily. 

Jaq.    A  fool,  a  fool!  —  I  met  a  fool  i'  the  forest, 
A  motley  fool;  —  a  miserable  world! 
As  I  do  live  by  food,  I  met  a  fool ; 
Who  laid  him  down,  and  basked  him  in  the  sun. 
And  railed  on  lady  Fortune  in  good  terms, 
In  good  set  terms,  —  and  yet  a  motley  fool. 
G-ood-morroiv,  fool,  quoth  I.     No,  sir,  quoth  he, 
Call  me  not  fool  till  Heaven  hath  sent  me  fortune: 
And  then  he  drew  a  dial  from  his  poke ; 
And  looking  on  it  with  lack-lustre  eye. 
Says,  very  wisely.  It  is  ten  o'clock. 
Thus  may  we  see,  quoth  he,  hoio  the  ivorld  ivags : 
' Tis  hut  an  hour  ago,  since  it  was  nine; 
And  after  an  hoicr  more,  'twill  he  eleven; 
And  so,  from  hour  to  hour,  we  ripe  and  ripe. 
And  then,  from  hour  to  hour,  we  rot  and  rot. 
And  thereby  hangs  a  tale.     When  I  did  hear 
The  motley  fool  thus  moral  on  the  time, 
My  lungs  began  to  crow  like  chanticleer, 
That  fools  should  be  so  deep-contemplative ; 
And  I  did  laugh,  sans  intermission, 
An  hour  by  his  dial.  —  0  noble  fool ! 
A  worthy  fool !     Motley's  the  only  wear. 

Duke  >S.    What  fool  is  this  ? 

Jaq.    0  worthy  fool !  —  One  that  hath  been  a  courtier ; 
And  says,  if  ladies  be  but  young,  and  fair. 
They  have  the  gift  to  know  it ;  and  in  his  brain  — 
Which  is  as  dry  as  the  remainder  biscuit 
After  a  voyage  —  he  hath  strange  places  crammed 
With  observation,  the  which  he  vents 
In  mangled  forms.  —  0  that  I  were  a  fool ! 
I  am  ambitious  for  a  motley  coat. 

Duke  jS.    Thou  shalt  have  one. 

Jaq.  It  is  my  only  suit ; 

Provided,  that  you  weed  your  better  judgments 
Of  all  opinion  that  grows  rank  in  them, 
That  I  am  wise.     I  must  have  liberty 
Withal,  as  large  a  charter  as  the  wind, 
To  blow  on  whom  I  please ;  for  so  foola  have 
And  they  that  are  most  galled  with  my  folly, 


604  AS    YOU   LIKE    IT.  [Act  D 

They  most  must  laugh.     And  why,  sir,  must  they  so  ? 

The  why  is  plain  as  way  to  parish  church. 

He  that  a  fool  doth  very  wisely  hit, 

Doth  very  foolishly,  although  he  smart. 

Not  to  seem  senseless  of  the  bob :  if  not, 

The  wise  man's  folly  is  anatomized 

E'en  bj  the  squandering  glances  of  the  fool. 

Invest  me  in  my  motley ;  give  me  leave 

To  speak  my  mind,  and  I  will  through  and  through 

Cleanse  the  foul  body  of  the  infected  world, 

If  they  will  patiently  receive  my  medicine. 

Duke  S.    Fie  on  thee !     I  can  tell  what  thou  wouldst  do. 

Jaq.    What,  for  a  counter,  would  I  do,  but  good  ' 

Duke  S.    Most  mischievous,  foul  sin,  in  chiding  sin ; 
For  thou  thyself  hast  been  a  libertine, 
As  sensual  as  the  brutish  sting  itself; 
And  all  the  embossed  sores,  and  headed  evils, 
That  thou  with  license  of  free  foot  hast  caught, 
Would'st  thou  disgorge  into  the  general  world. 

Jaq.    Why,  who  cries  out  on  pride, 
That  can  therein  tax  any  private  jiarty  ? 
Doth  it  not  flow  as  hugely  as  the  sea. 
Till  that  the  very,  very  means  do  ebb? 
What  woman  in  the  city  do  I  name, 
When  that  I  say,  the  city-woman  bears 
The  cost  of  princes  on  unworthy  shoulders  ? 
Who  can  come  in,  and  say,  that  I  mean  her, 
When  such  a  one  as  she,  such  is  her  neighbor  ? 
Or  what  is  he  of  basest  function. 
That  says,  his  bravery  is  not  on  my  cost, 
(Thinking  that  I  mean  him,)  but  therein  suits 
His  folly  to  the  mettle  of  my  speech  ? 
There  then ;  how  then,  what  then  ?     Let  me  see  wherein 
My  tongue  hath  wronged  him ;  if  it  do  him  right, 
Then  he  hath  wronged  himself;  if  he  be  free, 
Why,   then,  my  taxing  like  a  wild  goose  flies. 
Unclaimed  of  any  man.  —  But  who  comes  here? 

Enter  Orlando,  with  his  sword  dratvn. 

Orl.    Forbear,  and  eat  no  more. 

Jaq.  Why,  I  have  eat  none  yet. 

Orl.    Nor  shall  not,  till  necessity  be  served. 

Jaq.    Of  what  kind  should  this  cock  come  of? 

Duke  S.    Art  thou  thus  boldened,  man,  by  thy  distress ; 
Or  else  a  rude  despiser  of  good  manners. 
That  in  civility  thou  seem'st  so  empty? 


ActII.J  as   you  like  it.  605 

Orl.    Thou  touched  my  vein  at  first.     The  thorny  point 
Of  bare  distress  hath  ta'en  from  me  the  show 
Of  smooth  civility;  yet  I  am  inh\nd  bred, 
A.nd  know  some  nurture.     But  forbear,  I  say; 
He  dies,  that  touches  any  of  this  fruit, 
Till  I  and  my  affairs  are  answered. 

Jaq.  An  you  will  not  be  answered  with  reason,  I  must  die. 

Duke  S.    What  would  you  have  ?     Your  gentleness  shall 
force 
More  than  your  force  move  us  to  gentleness. 

Orl.    I  almost  die  for  food ;  and  let  me  have  it. 

Duhe  S.    Sit  down  and  feed,  and  welcome  to  our  table. 

Orl.    Speak  you  so  gently  ?     Pardon  me,  I  pray  you. 
I  thought,  that  all  things  had  been  savage  here ; 
And  therefore  put  I  on  the  countenance 
Of  stern  commandment.     But,  whate'er  you  are, 
That  in  this  desert  inaccessible. 
Under  the  shade  of  melancholy  boughs. 
Lose  and  neglect  the  creeping  hours  of  time ; 
If  ever  you  have  looked  on  better  days ; 
If  ever  been  where  bells  have  knolled  to  church ; 
If  ever  sat  at  any  good  man's  feast ; 
If  ever  from  your  eyelids  wiped  a  tear, 
And  know  what  'tis  to  pity,  and  be  pitied; 
Let  gentleness  my  strong  enforcement  be : 
In  the  which  hope,  I  blush,  and  hide  my  sword. 

Duke  S.    True  is  it  that  we  have  seen  better  days ; 
And  have  with  holy  bell  been  knolled  to  church ; 
And  sat  at  good  men's  feasts ;  and  wiped  oui'  eyes 
Of  drops  that  sacred  pity  hath  engendered: 
And  therefore  sit  you  down  in  gentleness, 
And  take  upon  command  what  help  we  have. 
That  to  your  wanting  may  be  ministered. 

Orl.    Then,  but  forbear  your  food  a  little  while. 
Whiles,  like  a  doe,  I  go  to  find  my  fawn. 
And  give  it  food.     There  is  an  old,  poor  man. 
Who  after  me  hath  many  a  weary  step 
Limped  in  pure  love ;  till  he  be  first  sufficed, — 
Oppressed  with  two  weak  evils,  age  and  hunger,  - 
I  will  not  touch  a  bit. 

Duke  S.  Go  find  him  out, 

And  we  will  nothing  waste  till  you  return. 

Orl.    I  thank  ye  ;  and  be  blessed  for  youi-  good  comfort ! 

3a* 


006  AS   YOU    LIKE   IT  [Act  111 

Dukt  aS*.    Tliou  scest,  we  are  not  all  alone  unhappy; 
This  wide  and  universal  theatre 
Presents  more  woful  pageants  than  the  scene 
Wherein  we  play  in. 

Jaq.  All  the  world's  a  stage, 

And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players. 
They  have  their  exits,  and  their  entrances ; 
And  one  man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts, 
His  acts  being  seven  ages.     At  first,  the  infant, 
Mewling  and  puking  in  the  nurse's  arms  ; 
And  then,  the  whining  school-boy,  with  his  satchel, 
And  shining  morning  face,  creeping  like  snail 
Unwillingly  to  school ;  and  then,  the  lover, 
Sighing  like  furnace,  with  a  woful  ballad 
Made  to  his  mistress'  eyebrow ;  then  a  soldier, 
Full  of  strange  oaths,  and  bearded  like  the  pard, 
Jealous  in  honor,  sudden  and  quick  in  quarrel. 
Seeking  the  bubble  reputation 

Even  in  the  cannon's  mouth  ;  and  then,  the  justice, 
In  fair,  round  belly,  with  good  capon  lined, 
With  eyes  severe,  and  beard  of  formal  cut. 
Full  of  wise  saws  and  modern  instances. 
And  so  he  plays  his  part.     The  sixth  age  shifts 
Into  the  lean  and  slippered  pantaloon  ; 
With  spectacles  on  nose,  and  pouch  on  side ; 
His  youthful  hose  well  saved,  a  world  too  wide 
For  his  shrunk  shank ;  and  his  big,  manly  voice, 
Turning  again  toward  childish  treble,  pipes 
And  whistles  in  his  sound.     Last  scene  of  all. 
That  ends  this  strange,  eventful  history. 
In  second  childishness,  and  mere  oblivion ; 
Sans  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans  every  thing. 

Re-enter  Orlando,  with  Adam. 

Dnhe  S.    Welcome.     Set   down  your  venerable  burden, 
And  let  him  feed. 

Orl.  I  thank  you  most  for  him. 

Adam.    So  had  you  need ; 
I  scarce  can  speak  to  to  thank  you  for  myself. 

Duke  S.    Welcome;  fall  to.     I  will  not  trouble  you 
As  yet,  to  question  you  about  your  fortunes. 
Give  us  some  music;  and,  good  cousin,  sing. 


Acrlll.l  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT.  C07 

Amiens  sings. 

SONG. 

I. 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 
As  man's  iixgratitude  ; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 
Because  thou  art  not  seen, 
Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Eeigh,  ho !  sing,  heigh,  ho !  unto  the  green  holly. 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly. 
Then,  heigh,  ho,  the  holly! 
This  life  is  most  jolly. 

II. 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot ; 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp. 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp. 

As  friend  remembered  not. 
Seigh,  ho !  sing,  heigh,  ho !  &c. 

Duke  S.    If  that  you  were  the  good  sir  Rowland's  son,— 
As  you  have  whispered  faithfully  you  were ; 
And  as  mine  eye  doth  his  effigies  witness 
Most  truly  limned,  and  living  in  your  face, — 
Be  truly  welcome  hither.     I  am  the  duke. 
That  loved  your  father.     The  residue  of  your  fortune 
Go  to  my  cave  and  tell  me. —  Good  old  man. 
Thou  art  right  welcome  as  thy  master  is. 
Support  him  hy  the  arm. —  Give  me  your  hand. 
And  let  me  all  your  fortunes  understand.  \_Exeunt. 


ACT    III. 

SCENE  I.     A  Boom  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Duke  Frederick,  Oliver,  Lords,  and  Attendants 

Duke  F.    Not  see  him  since  ?     Sir,  sir,  tliat  cannot  be  ; 
But  were  I  not  the  better  part  made  mercy, 
I  should  not  seek  an  absent  argument 


608  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  [Act  III 

Of  my  revenge,  thou  present.     But  look  to  it ; 

Find  out  thy  brother,  wheresoe'er  he  is ; 

Seek  him  with  candle ;  bring  him  dead  or  living, 

Within  this  tAvclvemonth,  or  turn  thou  no  more 

To  seek  a  living   in  our  territory. 

Thy  lands,  and  all  things  that  thou  dost  call  thine 

Worth  seizure,  do  we  seize  into  our  hands ; 

Till  thou  canst  quit  thee,  by  thy  brother's  mouth, 

Of  what  we  think  against  thee. 

on.    0  that  your  highness  knew  my  heart  in  this ! 
I  never  loved  my  brother  in  my  life. 

Duke  F.  More  villain  thou. — Well,  push  him  out  of  doors ; 
And  let  my  officers  of  such  a  nature 
Make  an  extent  upon  his  house  and  lands. 
Do  this  expediently,  and  turn  him  going.  \_Exeunt, 

SCENE  II.     The  Forest. 
Enter  Orlando,  with  a  paper. 

Orl.    Hang  there,  my  verse,  in  witness  of  my  love ; 

And  thou,  thrice-crowned  queen  of  night,  survey 
With  thy  chaste  eye,  from  thy  pale  sphere  above, 

Thy  huntress'  name,  that  my  full  life  doth  sway. 
0  Rosalind !  these  trees  shall  be  my  books, 

And  in  their  barks  my  thoughts  I'll  character; 
That  every  eye,  which  in  this  forest  looks, 
Shall  see  thy  virtue  witnessed  every  where. 
Run,  run,  Orlando ;  carve,  on  every  tree, 
The  fair    the  chaste,  and  unexpressive  she.  \^Exit. 

Enter  Corin  and  Touchstone. 

Corin.  And  how  like  you  this  shepherd's  life,  master 
Touchstone  ? 

Touch.  Truly,  shepherd,  in  respect  of  itself,  it  is  a  good 
life ;  but  in  respect  that  it  is  a  shepherd's  life,  it  is  naught. 
In  respect  that  it  is  solitary,  I  like  it  very  well ;  but  in 
respect  that  it  is  private,  it  is  a  very  vile  life.  Now,  in 
respect  it  is  in  the  fields,  it  pleaseth  me  well ;  but  in  respect 
it  is  not  in  the  court,  it  is  tedious.  As  it  is  a  spare  life, 
look  you,  it  fits  my  humor  well ;  but  as  there  is  no  more 
plenty  in  it,  it  goes  much  against  my  stomach.  Hast  any 
philosophy  in  thee,  shepherd  ? 

Cor.  No  more,  but  that  I  know,  the  more  one  sickens, 
the  worse  at  ease  he  is ;  and  that  he  that  wants  money, 
means,  and  content,  is  without  three  good  friends;  that  the 


Act  III]  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  609 

property  of  rain  is  to  wet,  and  fire  to  burn:— that  goo(i 
pasture  makes  fat  sheep ;  and  that  a  great  cause  of  the  night, 
IS  lack  of  the  sun;  that  he  that  hath  learned  no  wit°by 
nature  nor  art,  may  complain  of  good  breeding,  or  comes 
of  a  very  dull  kindred. 

Touch.  Such  a  one  is  a  natural  philosopher.  Wast  ever 
in  court,  shepherd  ? 

Cor.    No,  truly. 

Touch.    Then  thou   art  damned. 

Cor.    Nay,  I  hope, 

Touch.  Truly,  thou  art  damned ;  like  an  ill-roasted  egg, 
all  on  one  side. 

Cor.    For  not  being  at  court  ?     Your  reason. 

Touch.  Why,  if  thou  never  wast  at  court,  thou  never 
saw'st  good  manners ;  if  thou  never  saw'st  good  manners, 
then  thy  manners  must  be  wicked ;  and  wickedness  is  sin, 
and  sin  is  damnation.     Thou  art  in  a  parlous  state,  shepherd. 

Cor.  Not  a  whit.  Touchstone.  Those  that  are  good  man- 
ners at  the  court,  are  as  ridiculous  in  the  country,  as  the 
behavior  of  the  country  is  most  mockable  at  the  court.  You 
told  me,  you  salute  not  at  the  court,  but  you  kiss  your 
hands ;  that  courtesy  would  be  uncleanly,  if  courtiers  were 
shepherds. 

Touch.    Instance,  briefly ;  come,  instance. 

Cor.  Why,  we  are  still  handling  our  ewes ;  and  their 
fells,  you  know,  are  greasy. 

Touch.  Why,  do  not  your  courtier's  hands  sweat  ?  and 
is  not  the  grease  of  a  mutton  as  wholesome  as  the  sweat 
of  a  man  ?  Shallow,  shallow.  A  better  instance,  I  say ; 
come. 

Cor.    Besides,  our  hands  are  hard. 

Touch.  Your  lips  will  feel  them  the  sooner.  Shallow, 
again.     A  more  sounder  instance,  come. 

Cor.  And  they  are  often  tarred  over  with  the  surgery  of 
our  sheep  ;  and  would  you  have  us  kiss  tar  ?  The  courtier's 
hands  are  perfumed  with  civet. 

.  Touch.  Most  shallow  man  !  Thou  worms-meat,  in  respect 
of  a  good  piece  of  flesh.  Indeed  !  —  learn  of  the  wise,  and 
perpend.  Civet  is  of  a  baser  birth  than  tar ;  the  very  uix- 
cleanly  flux  of  a  cat.     Mend  the  instance,  shepherd. 

Cor.    You  have  too  courtly  a  wit  for  me ;  I'll  rest. 

Touch.  Wilt  thou  rest  damned  ?  God  help  thee,  shallow 
man  !     God  make  incision  in  thee  !  thou  art  raw. 

Cor.  Sir,  I  am  a  true  laborer.  I  earn  that  I  cat,  get 
that  I  wear ;  owe  no  man  hate,  envy  no  man's  happiness , 
glad  of  other  men's  good,  content  with  my  harm :  and  the 

Vol.  L  — 39 


610  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  [Act  III 

greatest  (/f  my  pride  is,  to  see  my  ewes  graze,  and  my  lambs 
suck. 

Touch.  That  is  another  simple  sin  in  you ;  to  bring  tho 
ewes  and  rams  together,  and  to  offer  to  get  your  living  by 
the  copulation  of  cattle ;  to  be  bawd  to  a  bell-wether ;  and 
to  betray  a  she- lamb  of  a  twelvemonth  to  a  crooked-pated, 
old,  cuckoldy  ram,  out  of  all  reasonable  match.  If  thou 
be'st  not  damned  for  this,  the  devil  himself  will  have  no 
shepherds.     I  cannot  see  else  how  thou  shouldst  'scape. 

Cor.  Here  comes  young  master  Ganymede,  my  new  mis- 
tress's brother. 

Enter  Rosalind,  reading  a  paper. 

Ros.  From  the  east  to  western  Ind, 
No  jetvel  is  like  Rosalind ; 
Her  worth,  being  mounted  on  the  windj 
Through  all  the  world  bears  Rosalind. 
All  the  pictures  fairest  lined, 
Are  but  black  to  Rosalind. 
Let  no  face  be  kept  in  mind, 
But  the  fair  of  Rosalind. 

Touch.  I'll  rhyme  you  so,  eight  years  together ;  dinners, 
and  suppers,  and  sleeping  hours  excepted;  it  is  the  right 
butter-woman's  rank  to  market. 

Ros.    Out,  fool ! 

Touch.    For  a  taste :  — 

If  a  hart  do  lack  a  hind, 

Let  him  seek  out  Rosalind. 

If  the  cat  will  after  kind, 

So,  be  sure,  will  Rosalind.  * 

Winter-garments  must  be  lined, 

So  must  slender  Rosalind. 

They  that  reap,  must  sheaf  and  hind; 

Then  to  cart  with  Rosalind. 

Siveetest  nut  hath  sourest  rind; 

Such  a  nut  is  Rosalind. 

He  that  siveetest  rose  will  find, 

3Iust  find  love's  prick  and  Rosalind. 

This  is  the  very  false  gallop  of  verses.  Why  do  you  infect 
vourself  with  them  ? 

Ros.    Peace,  you  dull  fool ;  I  found  them  on  a  tree. 

Touch.    Truly,  the  tree  yields  bad  fruit. 

Ros.  I'll  graff  it  with  you,  and  then  I  shall  graff  it  with 
a  medlar;  then  it  will  be  the  earliest  fruit  in  the  country; 


Act  III.]  AS  YOU   LIKE  IT.  611 

for  you'll  be  rotten  ere  you  be  half  ripe,  and  that's  the  risjht 
virtue  of  the  medlar. 

Touch.    You  have  said ;  but  whether  wisely  or  no,  let  the 
forest  judge. 

Enter  Celia,  reading  a  paper. 

Ros.   Peace ! 
Here  comes  my  sister,  reading ;  stand  asidfc. 

Cel.   Why  should  this  desert  silent  he? 

For  it  is  unpeopled  ?     No  ; 
Tongues  I'll  hang  op.  every  tree^ 

That  shall  civil  sayings  show. 
Some^  hotv  brief  the  life  of  man 

Runs  his  erring  pilgrimage ; 
That  the  stretching  of  a  span 

Buckles  in  his  sum  of  age. 
Some,  of  violated  vovjs, 

'Twixt  the  soids  of  friend  and  friend; 
But  upon  the  fairest  boughs, 

Or  at  every  sentence^  end, 
Will  I  Rosalinda  write; 

Teaching  all  that  read,  to  know 
The  quintessence  of  every  sprite 

Heaven  ivould  in  little  show. 
.  Therefore  Heaven  nature  charged 

That  one  body  should  be  filled 
With  all  graces  vnde  enlarged. 

Nature  presently  distilled 
Helen's  cheek,  but  7iot  her  heart; 

Cleopatra's  majesty  ; 
Atalanta's  better  part; 

Sad  Lucretias  ynodesty. 
Thus  Rosalind  of  many  'parts ^ 

By  heavenly  synod  tvas  devised; 
Of  many  faces,  eyes,  and  hearts, 

To  have  the  touches  dearest  prized. 
Heaven  would  that  she  these  gifts  should  have, 

And  I  to  live  and  die  her  slave. 

Ros.  0  most  gentle  Jupiter  !  — What  tedious  homily  of 
love  have  you  wearied  your  parishioners  withal,  and  never 
cried.  Have  patience,  good  people  ! 

Cel.  How  now!  back,  friends ; —  Shepherd,  go  off  a 
little.  —  Go  with  him,  sirrah. 

Totich.    Come,  shepherd,  let  us  make  an  honorable  re- 


I 


612  AS   YOU  LIKE  IT.  [Act  TIL 

treat ;  though  not  with  bag  and  baggage,  yet  with  scrip  and 
Bcrippage.  [Uxeimt  Corin  and  Touchstone. 

Cel.    Didst  thou  liear  these  verses  ? 

JRos.  0,  yes,  I  heard  them  all,  and  more  too ;  for  some 
of  them  had  in  them  more  feet  than  the  verses  would  bear. 

Cel.    That's  no  matter ;  the  feet  might  bear  the  verses. 

Jtos.  Ay,  but  the  feet  were  lame,  and  could  not  bear 
themselves  without  the  verse,  and  therefore  stood  lamely  in 
the  verse. 

Cel.  But  didst  thou  hear  without  wondering  how  thy  name 
should  be  hanged  and  carved  upon  these  trees  ? 

Mos.  I  was  seven  of  the  nine  days  out  of  the  wonder, 
before  you  came ;  for  look  here  what  I  found  on  a  palm- 
tree  ;  I  never  was  so  be-rh}' med  since  Pythagoras'  time,  that 
I  was  an  Irish  rat,  which  I  can  hardly  remember. 

Cel.    Trow  you  who  hath  done  this? 

Mos.    Is  it  a  man  ? 

Cel.  And  a  chain,  that  you  once  wore,  about  his  neck. 
Change  you  color  ? 

Mos.    I  pr'ythee,  who  ? 

Cel.  0  lord,  lord!  It  is  a  hard  matter  for  friends  to 
meet ;  but  mountains  may  be  removed  with  earthquakes,  and 
so  encounter. 

Mos.    Nay,  but  who  is  it? 

Cel.    Is  it  possible  ? 

Mos.  Nay,  I  pray  thee  now,  with  most  petitionary  vehe- 
mence, tell  me  who  it  is. 

Cel.  0  wonderful,  wonderful,  and  most  wonderful  won- 
derful, and  yet  again  wonderful,  and  after  that  out  of  all 
whooping  ? 

Mos.  Good  my  complexion  !  dost  thou  think,  though  I  am 
caparisoned  like  a  man,  I  have  a  doublet  and  hose  in  my 
disposition  ?  One  inch  of  delay  more  is  a  South  sea  of  dis- 
covery. I  pr'ythee,  tell  me,  who  is  it  ?  Quickly,  and  speak 
apace.  I  would  thou  could'st  stammer,  that  thou  might'st 
pour  this  concealed  man  out  of  thy  mouth,  as  wine  comes 
out  of  a  narrow-mouthed  bottle ;  either  too  much  at  once, 
or  none  at  all.  I  pr'ythee  take  the  cork  out  of  thy  mouth, 
that  I  may  drink  thy  tidings, 

Cel.    So  you  may  put  a  man  in  your  belly. 

Mos.  Is  he  of  God's  making  ?  What  manner  of  man  ? 
Is  his  head  worth  a  hat,  or  his  chin  worth  a  beard  ? 

Cel.    Nay,  he  hath  but  a  little  beard. 

Mos.  Why,  God  will  send  more  if  the  man  will  be  thank- 
ful. Let  me  stay  the  growth  of  his  beard,  if  thou  delay  me 
not  the  knowledge  of  his  chin. 


A.CTIIT.J  AS  YOU   LIKE  IT.  (313 

Cel.  It  is  young  Orlando ;  that  tripped  up  th«j  wrestler's 
heels,  and  your  heart,  both  in  an  instant. 

Ros.  Nay,  but  the  devil  take  mocking ;  speak  sad  brow, 
and  true  maid. 

Cel.    I'faith,  coz,  'tis  he. 

Ros.    Orlando  ? 

Cel.    Orlando. 

Ros.  Alas  the  day !  What  shall  I  do  with  my  doublet 
and  hose? — What  did  he,  when  thou  saw'st  him?  What 
said  he?  How  looked  he?  Wherein  went  he?  What 
makes  he  here  ?  Did  he  ask  for  me  ?  Where  remains  he  ? 
How  parted  he  with  thee  ?  And  when  shalt  thou  see  him 
again  ?     Answer  me  in  one  word. 

Cel.  You  must  borrow  me  Garagantua's  mouth  first ;  'tis 
a  word  too  great  for  any  mouth  of  this  age's  size.  To  say, 
ay,  and  no,  to  these  particulars,  is  more  than  to  answer  in 
a  catechism. 

Ros.  But  doth  he  know  that  I  am  in  this  forest,  and  in 
man's  apparel  ?  Looks  he  as  freshly  as  he  did  the  day  he 
wrestled  ? 

Cel.  It  is  as  easy  to  count  atomies,  as  to  resolve  the  pro- 
positions of  a  lover ;  —  but  take  a  taste  of  my  finding  him, 
and  relish  it  with  a  good  observance,  I  found  him  under 
a  tree,  like  a  di-opped  acorn. 

Ros.  It  may  well  be  called  Jove's  tree,  when  it  drops 
forth  such  fruit. 

Gel.    Give  me  audience,  good  madam. 

Ros.    Proceed. 

Cel.  There  lay  he,  stretched  along,  like  a  wounded  knight. 

Ros.  Though  it  be  pity  to  see  such  a  sight,  it  well  be- 
comes the  ground. 

Cel.  Cry,  holla!  to  thy  tongue,  I  pr'ythee ;  it  curvets 
very  unseasonably.     He  was  furnished  like  a  hunter. 

Ros.    0  ominous  !  he  comes  to  kill  my  heart. 

Cel.  I  would  sing  my  song  without  a  burden;  thou 
bring'st  me  out  of  tune. 

Ros.  Do  you  not  know  I  am  a  woman  ?  When  I  think, 
I  must  speak.     Sweet,  say  on. 

Enter  Orlando  and  Jaques. 
Cel.    You  bring  me  out.  —  Soft !  comes  he  not  here  ? 

Ros.    'Tis  he  ;  slink  by,  and  note  him. 

[Celia  and  Rosalind  retire. 

Jaq.  I  thank  you  for  your  company ;  but,  good  faith,  1 
had  as  lief  have  been  myself  alone. 

3  b 


614  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  [Act  ID 

Orl.  And  so  had  I ;  but  yet,  for  fasliion's  sake,  I  thank 
you  too  for  your  society. 

Jaq.    God  be  with  you  ;  let's  meet  as  little  as  we  can. 

Orl.    I  do  desire  we  may  be  better  strangers. 

Jaq.  I  pray  you,  mar  no  more  trees  with  writing  love 
BOngs  in  their  barks. 

Orl.  I  pray  you,  mar  no  more  of  my  verses  with  reading 
them  ill-favoredly. 

Jaq.    Rosalind  is  your  love's  name? 

Orl.    Yes,  just. 

Jaq.    I  do  not  like  her  name. 

Orl.  There  was  no  thought  of  pleasing  you,  when  she  was 
christened. 

Jaq.    What  stature  is  she  of? 

Orl.    Just  as  high  as  my  heart. 

Jaq.  You  are  full  of  pretty  answers.  Have  you  not  been 
acquainted  with  goldsmiths'  wives,  and  conned  them  out  of 
rings  ? 

Orl.  Not  so  ;  but  I  answer  you  right  painted  cloth,  from 
whence  you  have  studied  your  questions. 

Jaq.  L You  have  a  nimble  wit ;  I  think  it  was  made  of 
Atalanta's  heels.  Will  you  sit  down  with  me  ;  and  we  two 
will  rail  against  our  mistress  the  world,  and  all  our  misery. 

Orl.  I  will  chide  no  breather  in  the  world,  but  myself; 
against  whom  I  know  most  faults. 

Jaq.    The  worst  fault  you  have,  is  to  be  in  love. 

Orl.  'Tis  a  fault  I  will  not  change  for  your  best  virtue. 
I  am  weary  of  you. 

Jaq.  By  my  troth,  I  was  seeking  for  a  fool,  when  I  found 
you. 

Orl.  He  is  drowned  in  the  brook ;  look  but  in  and  you 
shall  see  him. 

Jaq.    There  shall  I  see  mine  own  figure. 

Orl.    Which  I  take  to  be  either  a  fool,  or  a  cipher. 

Jaq.  I'll  tarry  no  longer  with  you ;  farewell,  good  seig- 
nior love. 

Orl.  I  am  glad  of  your  departure ;  adieu,  good  mon- 
sieur melancholy. 

[^Exit.  Jaq.  —  Cel.  and  Ros.  come  forward. 

Ros.  I  will  speak  to  him  like  a  saucy  lackey,  and  under 
that  habit  play  the  knave  with  him. — Do  you  hear,  forester? 

Orl.    Very  well ;  what  would  you  ? 

Ros.    I  pray  you,  what  is't  o'clock  ? 

Orl.  You  should  ask  me,  what  time  o'day ;  there's  no  clock 
in  the  forest. 

Ro%     Then  there  is  no  true  lover  in  the  forest ;  else  sigh- 


Act  TIL]  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT.  615 

ing  every  minute,  and  groaning  every  hour,  would  detect  the 
lazy  foot  of  time,  as  well  as  a  clock. 

Orl.  And  why  not  the  swift  foot  of  time  ?  Had  not  that 
been  as  proper. 

Ros.  By  no  means,  sir ;  time  travels  in  divers  paces  with 
divers  persons.  I'll  tell  you  who  time  ambles  withal,  who 
time  trots  withal,  who  time  gallops  withal,  and  who  he  stands 
still  withal. 

Orl.    I  pr'ythee,  who  doth  he  trot  withal? 

Ros.  Marry,  he  trots  hard  with  a  young  maid,  between 
the  contract  of  her  marriage,  and  the  day  it  is  solemnized. 
If  the  interim  be  but  a  se'nnight,  times's  pace  is  so  hard  that 
it  seems  the  length  of  seven  years. 

OrL    Who  ambles  time  withal  ? 

Ros.  With  a  priest  that  lacks  Latin,  and  a  rich  man  that 
hath  not  the  gout ;  for  the  one  sleeps  easily,  because  he 
cannot  study ;  and  the  other  lives  merrily,  because  he  feels 
no  pain :  the  one  lacking  the  burden  of  lean  and  wasteful 
learning;  the  other  knowing  no  burden  of  heavy,  tedious 
penury.     These  time  ambles  withal. 

Orl.    Who  doth  he  gallop  withal  ? 

Ros.  With  a  thief  to  the  gallows ;  for  though  ho  go  as 
softly  as  foot  can  fall,  he  thinks  himself  too  soon  there. 

Orl.    Who  stays  it  still  withal  ? 

Ros.  With  lawyers  in  the  vacation ;  for  they  sleep  be 
tween  term  and  term,  and  then  they  perceive  not  how  time 
moves. 

Orl.    Where  dwell  you,  pretty  youth  ? 

Ros.  With  this  shepherdess,  my  sister ;  here  in  the  skirts 
of  the  forest,  like  fringe  upon  a  petticoat. 

Orl.    Are  you  a  native  of  this  place  ? 

Ros.   As  the  cony  that  you  see  dwell  where  she  is  kindled 

Orl.  Your  accent  is  something  finer  than  you  could  pur 
chase  in  so  removed  a  dwelling. 

Ros.  I  have  been  told  so  of  many ;  but,  indeed,  an  old 
religious  uncle  of  mine  taught  me  to  speak,  who  Avas  in  his 
youth  an  inland  man  ;  one  that  knew  courtship  too  well, 
for  there  he  fell  in  love.  I  have  heard  him  read  many 
lectures  against  it ;  and  I  thank  God  I  am  not  a  woman,  to 
be  touched  with  so  many  giddy  offences  as  he  hath  generally 
taxed  their  whole  sex  withal. 

Orl.  Can  you  remember  any  of  the  principal  evils  that 
he  laid  to  the  charge  of  women  ? 

Ros.  There  were  none  principal ;  they  Avere  all  like  one  an- 
other, as  half-pence  are  ;  every  one  fault  seeming  monstrous, 
till  his  fellow  fault  came  to  match  it. 


UIG  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  fAcT  III 

Orl.    I  pr'jtbce,  recount  some  of  them. 

Ros.  No  ;  I  will  not  cast  away  my  physic,  but  on  those  that 
are  sick.  There  is  a  man  haunts  the  forest,  that  abuses  our 
young  plants  with  carving  Rosalind  on  their  barks  ;  hangs 
odes  upon  hawthorns,  and  elegies  on  brambles ;  all,  forsooth, 
deifying  the  name  of  Rosalind.  If  I  could  meet  that  fancy- 
monger,  I  would  give  him  some  good  counsel,  for  he  seems 
to  have  the  quotidian  of  love  upon  him. 

Orl.  I  am  he  that  is  so  love-shaked ;  I  pray  you  tell  me 
your  remedy. 

Ros.  There  is  none  of  my  uncle's  marks  upon  you :  he 
taught  me  how  to  know  a  man  in  love ;  in  which  cage  of 
rushes,  I  am  sure,  you  are  not  a  prisoner. 

Orl.    What  were  his  marks  ? 

Ros.  A  lean  cheek,  which  you  have  not ;  a  blue  eye,  and 
sunken,  which  you  have  not ;  an  unquestionable  spirit,  which 
you  have  not;  —  a  beard  neglected,  which  you  have  not;  — 
but  I  pardon  you  for  that;  for,  simply,  your  having  in 
beard  is  a  younger  brother's  revenue.  —  Then  your  hose 
should  be  ungartered,  your  bonnet  unhanded,  your  sleeve 
unbuttoned,  your  shoe  untied,  and  everything  about  you  de- 
monstrating a  careless  desolation.  But  you  are  no  such 
man ;  you  are  rather  point-device  in  your  accoutrements ; 
as  loving  yourself,  than  seeming  the  lover  of  any  other. 

Orl.  Pair  youth,  I  would  I  could  make  thee  believe  I  love. 

Ros.  Me  believe  it !  You  may  as  soon  make  her  that 
you  love  believe  it ;  which,  I  warrant,  she  is  apter  to  do, 
than  to  confess  she  does.  That  is  one  of  the  points  in 
which  women  still  give  the  lie  to  their  consciences.  But, 
in  good  sooth,  are  you  he  that  hangs  the  verses  on  the  trees, 
wherein  Rosalind  is  so  admired  ? 

Orl.  I  swear  to  thee,  youth,  by  the  white  hand  of  Rosa- 
lind, I  am  that  he,  that  unfortunate  he. 

Ros.  But  are  you  so  much  in  love  as  your  rhymes  speak? 

Orl.    Neither  rhyme  nor  reason  can  express  how  much. 

Ros.  Love  is  merely  a  madness ;  and,  I  tell  you,  deserves 
as  well  a  dark  house  and  a  whip,  as  madmen  do ;  and  the 
reason  why  they  are  not  so  punished  and  cured,  is,  that  the 
lunacy  is  so  ordinary,  that  the  whippers  are  in  hve  too.  Yet 
I  profess  curing  it  by  counsel. 

Orl.    Did  you  ever  cure  any  so  ? 

Ros.  Yes,  one ;  and  in  this  manner.  He  was  to  imagine 
me  his  love,  his  mistress ;  and  I  set  him  every  day  to  woo 
me  •.  At  which  time  Avould  I,  being  but  a  moonish  youth, 
grieve,  be  effeminate,  changeable,  longing,  and  likmg ; 
r/roud,  fantastical,  apish,  shallow,  inconstant,  full  of  tears, 


Act  III]  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT.  G17 

full  of  smiles ;  for  every  passion  something,  and  for  no  pas- 
sion truly  any  thing,  as  boys  and  women  are  for  the  most 
part  cattle  of  this  color ;  would  now  like  him,  now  loathe 
him  ;  then  entertain  him,  then  forsAvear  him  ;  now  weep  for 
him,  then  spit  at  him ;  that  I  drave  my  suitor  from  his  mad 
humor  of  love,  to  a  living  humor  of  madness ;  which  was  to 
forswear  the  full  stream  of  the  world,  and  to  live  in  a  nook 
merely  monastic.  And  thus  I  cured  him  ;  and  this  way  will 
I  take  upon  me  to  wash  your  liver  as  clean  as  a  sound  sheep's 
heart,  that  there  shall  not  be  one  spot  of  love  in't. 

Orl.    I  would  not  be  cured,  youth. 

Ros.  I  would  cure  you,  if  you  would  but  call  me  Rosa- 
lind, and  come  every  day  to  my  cote,  and  woo  me. 

Orl.  Now,  by  the  faith  of  my  love,  I  will.  Tell  me 
where  it  is. 

Ros.  Go  with  me  to  it,  and  I'll  show  it  you ;  and  by  the 
way,  you  shall  tell  me  where  in  the  forest  you  live.  Will 
you  go  ? 

Orl.    With  all  my  heart,  good  youth. 

Ros.  Nay,  you  must  call  me  Rosalind.  —  Come,  sister, 
will  you  go?  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. 

Enter   Touchstone  and  Audrey;  Jaques  at  a  distance^ 
ohserviyig  them. 

Touch.  Come  apace,  good  Audrey ;  I  will  fetch  up  your 
goats,  Audrey.  And  how,  Audrey?  am  I  the  man  yet? 
Doth  my  simple  feature  content  you  ? 

Aud.    Your  features  !     Lord  warrant  us  !  Avhat  features? 

Touch.  I  am  here  with  thee  and  thy  goats,  as  the  most 
capricious  poet,  honest  Ovid,  was  among  the  Gotha. 

Jaq.  0  knowledge  ill-inhabited!  worse  than  Jove  in  a 
thatched  house !  \_Aside. 

Touch.  When  a  man's  verses  cannot  be  understood,  nor 
a  man's  good  wit  seconded  with  the  forward  child,  under- 
standing, it  strikes  a  man  more  dead  than  a  great  reckonmg 
in  a  little  room.— Truly,  I  would  the  gods  had  made  thee 
poetical 

Aud.  I  do  not  know  what  poetical  is.  Is  it  honest  m 
deed,  and  word?     Is  it  a  true  thing? 

Touch.  No,  truly,  for  the  truest  poetry  is  the  most 
feigning ;  and  lovers  are  given  to  poetry ;  and  what  they 
Bwear  in  poetry,  may  be  said,  as  lovers,  they  do  feign. 

3  B  2 


618  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  [Act  Ul. 

Aud.  Do  yon  wish,  then,  that  the  gods  had  made  me 
poetical  ? 

Touch.  I  do,  truly ;  for  thou  swearest  to  me  thou  art 
honest ;  now,  if  thou  wert  a  poet,  I  might  have  some  hope 
thou  didst  feign. 

Aud.    Would  you  not  have  me  honest  ? 

Touch.  No,  truly,  unless  thou  wert  hard  favored  ;  for 
honesty  coupled  to  beauty,  is  to  have  honey  a  sauce  to  sugar. 

Jaq.    A  material  fool !  \_Aside. 

Aud.  Well,  I  am  not  fair ;  and  therefore  I  pray  the  gods 
make  me  honest ! 

Touch.  Truly,  and  to  cast  away  honesty  upon  a  foul  slut, 
were  to  put  good  meat  into  an  unclean  dish. 

Aud.  I  am  not  a  slut,  though  I  thank  the  gods  I  am  foul. 

Touch.  Well,  praised  be  the  gods  for  thy  foulness  !  Slut- 
tishness  may  come  hereafter.  But  be  it  as  it  may  be,  I  will 
marry  thee :  and  to  that  end,  I  have  been  with  sir  Oliver 
Mar-text,  the  vicar  of  the  next  village ;  who  hath  promised 
to  meet  me  in  this  place  of  the  forest,  and  to  couple  us. 

Jaq.    I  would  fain  see  this  meeting.  \_Aside. 

Aud.    Well,  the  gods  give  us  joy ! 

Touch.  Amen.  A  man  may,  if  he  were  of  a  fearful 
heart,  stagger  in  this  attempt ;  for  here  we  have  no  temple 
but  the  wood,  no  assembly  but  horn-beasts.  But  what 
-  though  ?  Courage  !  As  horns  are  odious,  they  are  neces- 
sary. It  is  said, — Many  a  man  knows  no  end  of  his  goods  ; 
right ;  many  a  man  has  good  horns,  and  knows  no  end  of 
them.     Well,  that  is  the  dowry  of  his  wife ;  'tis  none  of  his 

own  getting.     Horns?     Even  so. Poor  men  alone? 

— No,  no  ;  the  noblest  deer  hath  them  as  huge  as  the  rascal. 
Is  the  single  man  therefore  blessed  ?  No  ;  as  a  walled  town 
is  more  worthier  than  a  village,  so  is  the  forehead  of  a  mar- 
ried man  more  honorable  than  the  bare  brow  of  a  bachelor ; 
and  by  how  much  defence  is  better  than  no  skill,  by  so  much 
is  a  horn  more  precious  than  to  want. 

l]nter  Sir  Oliver  Mar-text. 

Here  comes  sir  Oliver.  —  Sir  Oliver  Mar-text,  you  are  well 
met.  Will  you  despatch  us  here  under  this  tree,  or  shall 
we  go  with  you  to  your  chapel? 

Sir  Oli.    Is  there  none  here  to  give  the  woman  ? 

Touch.    I  will  not  take  her  on  gift  of  any  man. 

Sir  Oli.  Truly,  she  must  be  given,  or  the  marriage  is  not 
lawful. 

Jaq.  '[Discovering  himself.']  Proceed,  proceed ;  I'll  give 
her. 


Act  III.]  AS  YOU   LIKE  IT.  610 

Touch.  Good  even,  good  mastet  What  ye  caJVt.  IIow 
do  you,  sir  ?  You  are  very  well  met.  God'ild  you  for  your 
last  company.  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you. — Even  a  toy  in 
hand  here,  sir. — Nay ;  pray  be  covered. 
Jaq.  Will  you  be  married,  Motley? 
Touch.  As  the  ox  hath  his  bow,  sir,  the  horse  his  curb, 
and  the  falcon  her  bells,  so  man  hath  his  dei^ires ;  and  as 
pigeons  bill,  so  wedlock  would  be  nibbling. 

Jaq.  And  will  you,  being  a  man  of  your  breeding,  be 
married  under  a  bush,  like  a  beggar  ?  Get  you  to  church, 
and  have  a  good  priest  that  can  tell  you  what  marriage  is: 
thif  fellow  will  but  join  you  together  as  they  join  wainscot ; 
then  one  of  you  will  prove  a  shrunk  panel,  and,  like  green 
timber,  warp,  warp. 

Touch.    I  am  not  in  the  mind  but  I  were  better  to  be 
married  of  him  than  of  another ;  for  he  is  not  like  to  marry 
me  well ;  and  not  being  well  married,  it  will  be  a  good  ex- 
cuse for  me  hereafter  to  leave  my  wife.  [Aside. 
Jaq.    Go  thou  with  me,  and  let  me  counsel  thee. 
Touch.    Come,  sweet  Audrey ; 
We  must  be  married,  or  we  must  live  in  bawdry. 
Farewell,  good  master  Oliver  ! 

Not  —  0  sweet  Oliver, 
0  brave  Oliver, 
Leave  me  not  behind  thee ; 
But  —  wind  away. 

Begone,  I  say, 
I  will  not  to  wedding  with  thee. 

[Exeunt  Jaq.,  Touch.,  and  Audrey. 

Sir  on,    'Tis  no  matter ;    ne'er  a  fantastical  knave  of 

them  all  shall  flout  me  out  of  my  calling.  [Uxit. 

SCENE  IV.     The  same.     Before  a  Cottage. 
Enter  Rosalind  aiid  Celia. 

Jlos.    Never  talk  to  me ;  I  will  weep. 

Oel.  Do,  I  pr'ythee  ;  but  yet  have  the  grace  to  consider, 
that  tears  do  not  become  a  man. 

Mos.    But  have  I  not  cause  to  weep? 

Cel.    As  good  cause  as  one  would  desire ;  therefore  weep. 

Eos.    His  very  hair  is  of  the  dissembling  color. 

Cel.  Something  browner  than  Judas's.  Marry,  his  kisses 
are  Judas's  OAvn  children. 

Bos.    I'faith,  his  hair  is  of  a  good  color. 

Cel.  An  excellent  color  ;  your  chestnut  was  ever  the  only 
color. 


620  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  [Act  Til 

Eos.  And  his  kissing  is  as  full  of  sanctity  as  the  touch 
of  holy  bread. 

Oel.  lie  hath  bought  a  pair  of  cast  lips  of  Diana  ;  a  nun 
of  widow's  sisterhood  kisses  not  more  religiously ;  the  very 
ice  of  chastity  is  in  them. 

Bos.  But  why  did  he  swear  he  would  come  this  morning, 
and  comes  not  ? 

Cel.    Nay,  certainly,  there  is  no  truth  in  him. 

Hos.    Do  you  think  so  ? 

Cel  Yes,  I  think  he  is  not  a  pick-purse,  nor  a  horse- 
stealer ;  but  for  his  verity  in  love,  I  do  think  him.  as  concave 
as  a  covered  goblet,  or  a  worm-eaten  nut. 

Hos.   Not  true  in  love? 

Cel.    Yes,  when  he  is  in ;  but  I  think  he  is  not  in. 

Hos.    You  have  heard  him  swear  downright,  he  was. 

Cel  Was  is  not  is.  Besides,  the  oath  of  a  lover  is  no 
stronger  than  the  word  of  a  tapster ;  they  are  both  the  con- 
firmers  of  false  reckonings.  He  attends  here  in  the  forest 
on  the  duke  your  father. 

Hos.  I  met  the  duke  yesterday,  and  had  much  question 
with  him.  He  asked  me  of  what  parentage  I  was ;  I  told 
him,  of  as  good  as  he ;  so  he  laughed,  and  let  me  go.  But 
what  talk  we  of  fathers,  when  there  is  such  a  man  as 
Orlando  ? 

Cel.  0,  that's  a  brave  man  !  He  writes  brave  verses, 
speaks  brave  words,  swears  brave  oaths,  and  breaks  them 
bravely,  quite  traverse,  athwart  the  heart  of  his  lover ;  aa 
a  puny  tilter,  that  spurs  his  horse  but  on  one  side,  breaks 
his  staff  like  a  noble  goose;  but  all's  brave,  that  youth 
mounts,  and  folly  guides. — Who  comes  here? 

Enter  Corin. 

Cor,    Mistress,  and  master,  you  have  oft  inquired 
After  the  shepherd  that  complained  of  love; 
Who  you  saw  sitting  by  me  on  the  turf, 
Praising  the  proud,  disdainful  shenherdess 
That  was  his  mistress, 

Cel.  Well,  and  what  of  him  ? 

Cor.    If  you  will  see  a  pageant  truly  played, 
Between  the  pale  complexion  of  true  love 
And  the  red  glow  of  scorn  and  proud  disdain, 
Go  hence  a  little,  and  I  shall  conduct  you, 
If  you  will  mark  it. 

Ros.  0,  come,  let  us  remove; 

The  sight  of  lovers  feedeth  those  in  love. — 
Bring  us  unto  this  sight,  and  you  shall  say 
I'll  prove  a  busy  actor  in  their  play.  \^Exeunt. 


Act  in.]  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT.  621 

SCENE  V.     Another  Part  of  the  Forest. 
Enter  Silvius  and  Phebe. 

Sil.    Sweet  Phebe,  do  not  scorn  me ;  do  not,  Phebe 
Say  that  you  love  me  not ;  but  say  not  so 
In  bitterness.     The  common  executioner, 
Whose  heart  the  accustomed  sight  of  death  makes  hard, 
Falls  not  the  axe  upon  the  humbled  neck, 
But  first  begs  pardon.     Will  you  sterner  be 
Than  he  that  dies  and  lives  by  bloody  drops? 

Enter  Rosalind,  Celia,  and  Corin,  at  a  distance. 

Phe.    I  would  not  be  thy  executioner ; 
I  fly  thee,  for  I  would  not  injure  thee. 
Thou  tell'st  me,  there  is  murder  in  mine  eye. 
'Tis  pretty,  sure,  and  very  probable. 
That  eyes — that  are  the  frail'st  and  softest  things, 
Who  shut  their  coward  gates  on  atomies — 
Should  be  called  tyrants,  butchers,  murderers! 
Now  do  I  frown  on  thee  with  all  my  heart; 
And,  if  mine  eyes  can  wound,  now  let  them  kill  thoe ; 
Now  counterfeit  to  swoon;  why,  now  fall  down; 
Or,  if  thou  canst  not,  0,  for  shame;  for  shame, 
Lie  not,  to  say  mine  eyes  are  murderers. 
Now  show  the  wound  mine  eye  hath  made  in  thee. 
Scratch  thee  but  with  a  pin,  and  there  remains 
Some  scar  of  it;  lean  but  upon  a  rush, 
The  cicatrice  and  capable  impressure 
Thy  palm  some  moment  keeps  ;  but  now  mine  eyes, 
Which  I  have  darted  at  thee,  hurt  thee  not; 
Nor,  I  am  sure,  there  is  no  force  in  eyes 
That  can  do  hurt. 

Sil  0  dear  Phebe, 

If  ever  (as  that  ever  may  be  near) 
You  meet  in  some  fresh  cheek  the  power  of  fancy, 
Then  shall  you  know  the  wounds  invisible 
That  love's  keen  arrows  make. 

p/jg.  But,  till  that  time, 

Come  not  thou  near  me ;  and,  when  that  time  comes, 
Afflict  me  with  thy  mocks;  pity  me  not; 
As  till  that  time,  I  shall  not  pity  thee. 

Bo%.    And  why,  I  pray  you  ?    ^Advancing.']   Who  mighi 
be  your  mother. 
That  you  insult,  exult,  and  all  at  once. 
Over  the  wretched  ?     What  though  you  have  no  beauty, 


622  AS  YOU  LIKE   IT.  [Act  III 

(As,  by  my  faith,  I  see  no  more  in  you 
Than  without  candle  may  go  dark  to  bed,) 
Must  you  be  therefore  proud  and  pitiless  ? 
Why,  what  means  this?     Why  do  you  look  on  me? 
I  see  no  more  in  you,  than  in  the  ordinary 
Of  nature's  sale-work.  —  Od's  my  little  life  ! 
I  think  she  means  to  tangle  my  eyes  too. 
No,  'faith,  proud  mistress,  hope  not  after  it ; 
'Tis  not  your  inky  brows,  your  black  silk  hair. 
Your  bugle  eyeballs,  nor  your  cheek  of  cream, 
That  can  entame  my  spirits  to  your  worship. — 
You  foolish  shepherd,  wherefore  do  you  follow  her, 
Like  foggy  south,  puffing  with  wind  and  rain? 
You  are  a  thousand  times  a  properer  man. 
Than  she  a  woman.     'Tis  such  fools  as  you, 
That  make  the  world  full  of  ill-favored  children. 
'Tis  not  her  glass,  but  you,  that  flatters  her; 
And  out  of  you  she  sees  herself  more  proper, 
Than  any  of  her  lineaments  can  show  her. — 
But,  mistress,  know  yourself;  down  on  your  knees, 
And  thank  Heaven,  fasting,  for  a  good  man's  love ; 
For  I  must  tell  you  friendly  in  your  ear, — 
Sell  when  you  can ;  you  are  not  for  all  markets. 
Cry  the  man  mercy ;   love  him ;   take  his  offer ; 
Foul  is  most  foul,  being  foul  to  be  a  scoifer. 
So  take  her  to  thee,  shepherd.  —  Fare  you  well. 

Phe.  Sweet  youth,  I  pray  you  chide  a  year  together; 
I  had  rather  hear  you  chide  than  this  man  woo. 

Ros.  He's  fallen  in  love  with  her  foulness,  and  she'll  fall 
in  love  with  my  anger.  If  it  be  so,  as  fast  as  she  answers 
thee  with  frowning  looks,  I'll  sauce  her  with  bitter  words. — 
Why  look  you  so  upon  me  ? 

Phe.    For  no  ill  will  I  bear  you. 

Ros.    I  pray  you  do  not  fall  in  love  with  me, 
For  I  am  falser  than  vows  made  in  wine. 
Besides,  I  like  you  not.     If  you  will  know  my  house, 
'Tis  at  the  tuft  of  olives,  here  hard  by. — 
Will  you  go,  sister  ?  —  Shepherd,  ply  her  hard. — 
Come,  sister.  —  Shepherdess,  look  on  him  better. 
And  be  not  proud ;  though  all  the  world  could  see, 
None  could  be  so  abused  in  sight  as  he. 
Come,  to  our  flock.  \_Exeimt  Ros.,  Cel.,  and  Cor 

Phe.    Dead  shepherd !  now  I  find  ehy  saw  of  might ; 
Who  ever  loved,  that  loved  not  at  first  sight? 

Sil.    Sweet  Phebe, — 

Phe.  Ha!  What  say'st  thou,  Silvius? 


Act  ITI.]  a  S    Y  0  U   L  I  K  E  I  T.  623 

Sil.    Sweet  Phebe,  pity  me. 

PJie.    Why,  I  am  sorry  for  thee,  gentle  Silvius. 

Sil.    Wherever  sorrow  is,  relief  would  be ; 
If  you  (\o  soiTow  at  my  grief  in  love, 
By  giving  love,  your  sorrow  and  my  grief 
Were  both  extermined. 

Phe.    Thou  hast  my  love;   is  not  that  neighborly? 

Sil.    I  would  have  you. 

Phc.  Why,  that  were  covetousness. 

Silvius,  the  time  was,  that  I  hated  thee; 
And  yet  it  is  not,  that  I  bear  thee  love; 
But  since  that  thou  canst  talk  of  love  so  well, 
Thy  company,  which  erst  was  irksome  to  me, 
I  will  endure ;  and  I'll  employ  thee  too. 
But  do  not  look  for  further  recompense, 
Than  thine  own  gladness  that  thou  art  employed. 

Sil.    So  holy  and  so  perfect  is  my  love, 
And  I  in  such  a  poverty  of  grace. 
That  I  shall  think  it  a  most  plenteous  crop 
To  glean  the  broken  ears  after  the  man 
That  the  main  harvest  reaps.     Loose  now  and  then 
A  scattered  smile,  and  that  I'll  live  upon. 

Phe.  Know'st  thou  the  youth  that  spoke  to  me  erewhile  If 

Sil.    Not  very  well,  but  I  have  met  him  oft ; 
And  he  hath  bought  the  cottage,  and  the  bounds, 
That  the  old  carlot  once  was  master  of. 

Phe.    Think  not  I  love  him,  though  I  ask  for  him. 
'Tis  but  a  peevish  boy;  —  Yet  he  talks  well;  — 
But  what  care  I  for  words?     Yet  words  do  well, 
When  he  that  speaks  them  pleases  those  that  hear. 
It  is  a  pretty  youth  ;  —  not  very  pretty ;  — 
But,  sure,  he's  proud ;   and  yet  his  pride  becomes  him. 
He'll  make  a  proper  man ;  the  best  thing  in  him 
Is  his  complexion ;  and  faster  than  his  tongue 
Did  make  offence,  his  eye  did  heal  it  up. 
He  is  not  very  tall ;  yet  for  his  years  he's  tall : 
His  leg  is  but  so  so ;  and  yet  'tis  well : 
There  was  a  pretty  redness  in  his  lip ; 
A  little  riper  and  more  lusty  red 

Than  that  mixed  in  his  cheek ;  'twas  just  the  difference 
Betwixt  the  constant  red  and  mingled  damask. 
There  be  some  women,   Silvius,  had  they  marked  him 
In  parcels  as  I  did,  would  have  gone  near 
To  fall  in  love  with  him;  but,  for  my  part, 
I  love  him  not,  nor  hate  him  not;  and  yet 
I  have  more  cause  to  hate  him  than  to  love  him. 


624  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  [Act  IV. 

For  -vvliat  had  he  to  do  to  chide  at  me? 

He  said,  mine  eyes  were  black,  and  my  hair  black ; 

And,  now  I  am  remembered,  scorned  at  me. 

I  marvel  why  I  answered  not  again ; 

But  that's  all  one ;  omittance  is  no  quittance. 

I'll  write  to  him  a  very  taunting  letter, 

And  thou  shalt  bear  it.     Wilt  thou,  Silvius? 

Sil.    Phebe,  with  all  my  heart. 

JPhe.  I'll  write  it  straight; 

The  matter's  in  my  head,  and  in  my  heart ; 
I  will  be  bitter  with  him,  and  passing  short. 
Go  with  me,  Silvius.  [IJxeunt. 


ACT  ly. 

SCENE  I.     Tlie  same. 
Enter  Rosalind,  Celia,  and  Jaques. 

Jaq.  I  pr'ythee,  pretty  youth,  let  me  be  better  acquainted 
with  thee. 

Ros.    They  say  you  are  a  melancholy  fellow. 

Jaq.    I  am  so ;  I  do  love  it  better  than  laughing. 

Ros.  Those  that  are  in  extremity  of  either,  are  abomina- 
ble fellows  ;  and  betray  themselves  to  every  modern  censure, 
worse  than  drunkards. 

Jaq.    Why,  'tis  good  to  be  sad  and  say  nothing. 

Ros.    Why,  then,  'tis  good  to  be  a  post. 

Jaq.  I  have  neither  the  scholar's  melancholy,  which  is 
emulation ;  nor  the  musician's,  which  is  fantastical ;  nor  the 
courtier's,  which  is  proud;  nor  the  soldier's,  which  is  am- 
bitious ;  nor  the  lawyer's,  which  is  politic  ;  nor  the  lady's, 
which  is  nice ;  nor  the  lover's,  which  is  all  these :  but  it  is 
a  melancholy  of  mine  own,  compounded  of  many  simples, 
extracted  from  many  objects ;  and,  indeed,  the  sundry  con- 
templation of  my  travels  ;  which,  by  often  rumination,  wraps 
me  in  a  most  humorous  sadness. 

Ros.  A  traveller  !  By  my  faith,  you  have  great  reason 
to  be  sad ;  I  fear  you  have  sold  your  own  lands,  to  see  other 
men's ;  then,  to  have  seen  much,  and  to  have  nothing,  is  to 
have  rich  eyes  and  poor  hands. 

Jaq.    Yes,  I  have  gained  my  experience. 


Act  IV.]  AS   YOU  LIKE  IT  625 

Enter  Orlando. 

Ro8.  And  your  experience  makes  you  sad.  I  had  rather 
have  a  fool  to  make  me  merry,  than  experience  to  make  me 
sad ;  and  to  travel  for  it  too. 

Orl.    Good  day,  and  happiness,  dear  Rosalind ! 

Jaq.  Nay  then,  God  be  wi'  you,  an  you  talk  in  blank 
verse.  [Exit. 

Ros.  Farewell,  monsieur  traveller.  Look,  you  lisp,  and 
wear  strange  suits ;  disable  all  the  benefits  of  your  own 
country ;  be  out  of  love  with  your  nativity,  and  almost  chide 
God  for  making  you  that  countenance  you  are ;  or  I  will 
scarce  think  you  have  swam  in  a  gondola. — Why,  how  now, 
Orlando  !  Where  have  you  been  all  this  while  ?  You  a 
lover? — An  you  serve  me  such  another  trick,  never  come  in 
my  sight  more. 

Orl.  My  fair  Rosalind,  I  come  within  an  hour  of  my 
promise. 

Ros.  Break  an  hour's  promise  in  love?  He  that  will 
divide  a  minute  into  a  thousand  parts,  and  break  but  a  part 
of  the  thousandth  part  of  a  minute  in  the  affairs  of  love,  it 
may  be  said  of  him,  that  Cupid  hath  clapped  him  o'  the 
shoulder,  but  I  warrant  him  heart-whole. 

Orl.    Pardon  me,  dear  Rosalind. 

Ros.  Nay,  an  you  be  so  tardy,  come  no  more  in  my  sight ; 
I  had  as  lief  be  wooed  of  a  snail. 

Orl.    Of  a  snail  ? 

Ros.  Ay,  of  a  snail ;  for  though  he  comes  slowly,  he 
carries  his  house  on  his  head ;  a  better  jointure,  I  think, 
than  you  can  make  a  woman.  Besides,  he  brings  his  des- 
tiny with  him. 

Orl.    What's  that? 

Ros.  Why,  horns ;  which  such  as  you  are  fain  to  be  be- 
holden to  your  wives  for :  but  he  comes  armed  in  his  fortune, 
and  prevents  the  slander  of  his  wife. 

Orl.  Virtue  is  no  horn-maker ;  and  my  Rosalind  is  vir- 
tuous. 

Ros    And  I  am  your  Rosalind. 

Gel.  It  pleases  him  to  call  you  so ;  but  he  hath  a  Rosa- 
lind of  a  better  leer  than  you. 

Ros.  Come,  woo  me,  woo  me ;  for  now  I  am  in  a  holiday 
humor,  and  like  enough  to  consent.  What  would  you  say 
to  me  now,  an  I  were  your  very,  very  Rosalind  ? 

Orl.    I  would  kiss,  before  I  spoke. 

Ros.  Nay,  you  were  better  speak  first ;  and  when  you 
were  gravelled  for  lack  of  matter,  you  might  take  occasion 

Vol.  I.  — 40  3  c 


0i>6  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  [Act  [V. 

to  kiss.  A^ery  good  orators,  when  they  are  out,  they  will 
spit ;  and  for  lovers  lacking  (God  warn  us !)  matter,  the 
cleanliest  shift  is  to  kiss, 

Orl.    How  if  the  kiss  be  denied  ? 

Ros.  Then  she  puts  you  to  entreaty,  and  there  begins 
new  matter. 

Orl.  Who  could  be  out,  being  before  his  beloved  mistress? 

Ros.  Marry,  that  should  you,  if  I  were  your  mistress; 
or  I  should  think  my  honesty  ranker  than  my  wit. 

Orl.    What,  of  my  suit  ? 

Ros.  Not  out  of  your  apparel,  and  yet  out  of  your  suit. 
Am  not  I  your  Rosalind  ? 

Orl.  I  take  some  joy  to  say  you  are,  because  I  would  be 
talking  of  her. 

Ros.    Well,  in  her  person,  I  say  —  I  will  not  have  you. 

Orl.    Then,  in  mine  own  person,  I  die. 

Ros.  No,  faith,  die  by  attorney.  The  poor  world  is 
almost  six  thousand  years  old,  and  in  all  this  time  there 
was  not  any  man  died  in  his  own  person,  videlicet,  in  a  love- 
cause.  Troilus  had  his  brains  dashed  out  with  a  Grecian 
club;  yet  he  did  what  he  could  to  die  before;  and  he  is  one 
of  the  patterns  of  love.  Leander,  he  would  have  lived 
many  a  fair  year,  though  Hero  had  turned  nun,  if  it  had 
not  been  for  a  hot  midsummer  night ;  for,  good  youth,  he 
went  but, forth  to  wash  him  in  the  Hellespont,  and,  being 
taken  with  the  cramp,  was  drowned ;  and  the  foolish  chro- 
niclers of  that  age  found  it  was  —  Hero  of  Sestos.  But 
these  are  all  lies ;  men  have  died  from  time  to  time,  and 
worms  have  eaten  them,  but  not  for  love. 

Orl.  I  would  not  have  my  right  Rosalind  of  this  mind ; 
for,  I  protest,  her  frown  might  kill  me. 

Ros.  By  this' hand,  it  will  not  kill  a  fly.  But  come,  now 
T  will  be  your  Rosalind  in  a  more  coming-on  disposition ; 
and  ask  me  what  you  will,  I  will  grant  it. 

Orl.    Then  love  me,  Rosalind. 

Ros.    Yes,  faith  will  I,  Fridays,  and  Saturdays,  and  all. 

Orl.    And  wilt  thou  have  me  ? 

Ros.    Ay,  and  twenty  such. 

Orl.    W^hat  say'st  thou  ? 

Ros.    Are  you  not  good  ? 

Orl.    I  hope  so. 

Ros.  Why,  then,  can  one  desire  too  much  of  a  good 
thing? — Come,  sister,  you  shall  be  the  priest,  and  marry  us. 
—  Give  me  your  hand,  Orlando. — What  do  you  say,  sister? 

Orl.    Pray  thee,  marry  us. 

Cel.    I  cannot  say  the  words. 


ActIY.]  as   you   like   it.  627 

Eos.    You  must  begin, Will  you,   Orlando,— 

Gel.  Go  to.— Will  you,  Orlando,  have  to  wife  this  ilosa- 
lind? 

Orl.    I  will. 

Has.    Ay,  but  when  ? 

Orl.    Why  now ;  as  fast  as  she  can  marry  us. 

Ros.  Then  you  must  say,—/  take  thee,  Rosalind,  for 
wife. 

Orl.    I  take  thee,  Rosalind,  for  wife. 

Ros.  I  might  ask  you  for  your  commission;  but — I  do 
take  thee,  Orlando,  for  my  husband.  There  a  girl  goes 
before  the  priest ;  and,  certainly,  a  woman's  thought  runs 
before  her  actions. 

Orl.    So  do  all  thoughts ;  they  are  winged. 

Ros.  Now  tell  me,  how  long  you  would  have  her  after 
you  have  possessed  her. 

Orl.    Forever  and  a  day. 

Ros.  Say  a  day,  without  the  ever.  No,  no,  Orlando  ; 
men  are  April  when  they  woo ;  December,  when  they  wed : 
maids  are  May  when  they  are  maids,  but  the  sky  changes 
when  they  are  wives.  I  will  be  more  jealous  of  thee  than 
a  Barbary  cock-pigeon  over  his  hen  ;  more  clamorous  than 
a  parrot  against  rain ;  more  new-fangled  than  an  ape ;  more 
giddy  in  my  desires  than  a  monkey.  I  will  weep  for  nothing, 
like  Diana  in  the  fountain ;  and  I  will  do  that  when  you  are 
disposed  to  be  merry ;  I  will  laugh  like  a  hyena,  and  that 
when  thou  art  inclined  to  sleep. 

Orl.    But  will  my  Rosalind  do  so? 

Ros.    By  my  life,  she  will  do  as  I  do. 

Orl.    0,  but  she  is  wise. 

Ros.  Or  else  she  could  not  have  the  wit  to  do  this ;  the 
wiser,  the  waywarder.  Make  the  doors  upon  a  woman's  wit, 
and  it  will  out  at  the  casement ;  shut  that,  and  'twill  out  at 
the  key-hole ;  stop  that,  'twill  fly  with  the  smoke  out  at 
the  chimney. 

Orl.  A  man  that  had  a  wife  with  such  a  wit,  he  might 
say, —  Wit,  whither  loilt  f 

Ros.  Nay,  you  might  keep  that  check  for  it,  till  you  met 
your  wife's  wit  going  to  your  neighbor's  bed. 

Orl.    And  what  wit  could  wit  have  to  excuse  that? 

Ros.  Marry,  to  say, —  she  came  to  seek  you  there.  You 
shall  never  take  her  without  her  answer,  unless  you  take  her 
without  her  tongue.  0,  that  woman  that  cannot  make  lier 
fault  her  husband's  occasion,  let  her  never  nur^e  her  child 
herself,  for  she  will  breed  it  like  a  fool. 

Orl.    For  these  two  hours,  Rosalind,  I  will  leave  thee. 


628  AS   YOU  LIKE  IT.  [Act  IV 

Jlos.    Alas,  dear  love,  I  cannot  lack  thee  two  hours. 

Orl.  I  must  attend  the  duke  at  dinner ;  by  two  o'clock 
I  will  be  with  thee  again. 

Hos.  Ay,  go  your  ways,  go  your  ways.  I  knew  what 
you  would  prove ;  my  friends  told  me  as  much,  and  I  thought 
no  less  ;  —  that  flattering  tongue  of  yours  won  me  ;  —  'tia 
but  one  cast  away,  and  so, —  come,  death, — Two  o'clock  is 
your  hour  ? 

Orl.    Ay,  sweet  Rosalind. 

Mos.  By  my  troth  and  in  good  earnest,  and  so  God  mend 
me,  and  by  all  pretty  oaths  that  are  not  dangerous,  if  you 
break  one  jot  of  your  promise,  Cr  come  one  minute  behind 
your  hour,  I  will  think  you  the  most  pathetical  break-promise, 
and  the  most  hollow  lover,  and  the  most  unworthy  of  her 
you  call  Rosalind,  that  may  be  chosen  out  of  the  gross  band 
of  the  unfaithful.  Therefore  beware  my  censure,  and  keep 
your  promise. 

Orl.  AVith  no  less  religion,  than  if  thou  wert  indeed  my 
Rosalind.     So,  adieu. 

Mos.  Well,  time  is  the  old  justice  that  examines  all  such 
offenders,  and  let  time  try.     Adieu  !  [^Uxit  Orlando. 

Cel.  You  have  simply  misused  our  sex  in  your  love-prate : 
we  must  have  your  doublet  and  hose  plucked  over  your  head, 
and  show  the  world  what  the  bird  hath  done  to  her  own  nest. 

Mos.  0  coz,  coz,  coz,  my  pretty  little  coz,  that  thou  didst 
know  how  many  fathom  deep  I  am  in  love !  But  it  cannot 
be  sounded ;  my  affection  hath  an  unknown  bottom,  like  the 
bay  of  Portugal. 

Cel.  Or  rather,  bottomless ;  that  as  fast  as  you  pour 
affection  in,  it  runs  out. 

Mos.  No,  that  same  wicked  bastard  of  Venus,  that  was 
begot  of  thought,  conceived  of  spleen,  and  born  of  madness ; 
that  blind  rascally  boy,  that  abuses  every  one's  eyes,  because 
his  own  are  out,  let  him  be  judge,  how  deep  I  am  in  love. — 
I'll  tell  thee,  Aliena,  I  cannot  be  out  of  the  sight  of  Orlando. 
I'll  go  find  a  shadow,  and  sigh  till  he  come. 

Cel.   And  I'll  sleep.  IJExeunt. 

SCENE  II.     Another  Part  of  the  Forest. 
Enter  Jaques  and  Lords,  in  the  habit  of  Foresters. 

Jaq.    Which  is  he  that  killed  the  deer? 
1  Lord.    Sir,  it  was  I. 

Jaq.  Let's  present  him  to  the  duke,  like  a  Roman  con- 
queror ;  and  it  would  do  well  to  set  the  deer's  horns  upon 


Act  IV.]  A.S  YOU   LIKE  IT.  629 

his  head,  for  a  branch  of  victory.  —  Have  you  no  song, 
forester,  for  this  purpose  ? 

2  Lord.    Yes,  sir. 

Jaq.  Sing  it;  'tis  no  matter  how  it  be  in  tune,  so  it 
makes  noise  enough. 

SONG. 

1.  What  shall  he  have  that  killed  the  deer? 

2.  His  leathern  skin,  and  horns  to  wear. 

1.    Then  sing  him  home.                1  tv,          f    i.  n 

Take  thou  no  scorn  to  wear  the  horn;    I  jT       ^t"    ^i7 

It  was  a  crest  ere  thou  wast  horn;           (  ^^^  *^^^   ^^'^' 

1.  Thy  father  s  father  wore  it;  J  ^^' 

2.  And  thy  father  bore  it. 

All.  The  horn,  the  horn,  the  lusty  horn, 

Is  not  a  thing  to  laugh  to  scorn.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.     The  Forest. 
Enter  Rosalind  and  Celia. 

Ros.  How  say  you  now  ?  Is  it  not  past  two  o'clock  ? 
And  here  much  Orlando  ! 

Cel.  I  warrant  you,  with  pure  love,  and  troubled  brain, 
he  hath  ta'en  his  bow  and  arrows,  and  is  gone  forth  —  to 
sleep.     Look,  who  comes  here. 

Enter  Silvius. 

Sil.    My  errand  is  to  you,  fair  youth. — 
My  gentle  Phebe  did  bid  me  give  you  this. 

[Giving  a  letter, 
I  know  not  the  contents ;  but  as  I  guess, 
By  the  stern  brow  and  waspish  action 
Which  she  did  use  as  she  was  writing  of  it. 
It  bears  an  angry  tenor.     Pardon  me, 
I  am  but  as  a  guiltless  messenger. 

Ros.    Patience  herself  would  startle  at  this  letter, 
And  play  the  swaggerer ;  bear  this,  bear  all. 
She  says,  I  am  not  fair :  that  I  lack  manners ; 
She  calls  me  proud:  and,  that  she  could  not  love  me 
Were  man  as  rare  as  Phoenix.     Od's  my  will ! 
Her  love  is  not  the  hare  that  I  do  hunt: 
Why  writes  she  so  to  me? — Well,  shepherd,  well, 
This  is  a  letter  of  your  own  device. 

Sil.    No,  I  protest,  I  know  not  the  contents; 
Phebe  did  write  it. 

3c2 


630  AS  YOU   LIKE  IT.  [Act  IV 

Hos.  Come,  come,  you  are  a  fool, 

And  turned  into  the  extremity  of  love. 
I  saw  her  hand ;  she  has  a  leatliern  hand, 
A  freestone-colored  hand ;  I  verily  did  think 
That  her  old  gloves  were  on,  but  'twas  her  hands; 
She  has  a  housewife's  hand ;  but  that's  no  matter. 
I  say,  she  never  did  invent  this  letter ; 
This  is  a  man's  invention,  and  his  hand. 
iSil.    Sure,  it  is  hers. 

Mos.    Why,   'tis  a  boisterous  and  a  cruel  style, 
A  style  for  challengers.     Why,  she  defies  me, 
Like  Turk  to  Christian :  woman's  gentle  brain 
Could  not  drop  forth  such  giant-rude  invention, 
Such  Ethiop  words,  blacker  in  their  effect 
Than  in  their  countenance.  — Will  you  hear  the  letter  ? 

Stl.    So  please  you,  for  I  never  heard  it  yet ; 
Yet  heard  too  much  of  Phebe's  cruelty. 

Hos.    She  Phebes  me.     Mark  how  the  tyrant  writes. 
Art  thou  god  to  shepherd  turned,  ["Reada 

That  a  maidens  heart  hath  burned? 
Can  a  woman  rail  thus  ? 
Sil.    Call  you  this  railing? 
E.0S. '  Why,  thy  godhead  laid  apart, 
Warrst  thou  with  a  woman's  heart  ? 
Did  you  ever  hear  such  railing  ? 

Wldles  the  eye  of  man  did  woo  me. 
That  could  do  no  vengeance  to  me  — 
Meaning  me,  a  beast. — 

Jf  the  scorn  of  your  bright  eyne 
Have  power  to  raise  such  love  in  mine^ 
Alack,  in  me  what  strange  effect 
Would  they  work  in  mild  aspect? 
Whiles  you  chid  7ne,  I  did  love; 
Sow  then  might  your  prayer's  move? 
He  that  brings  this  love  to  thee, 
Little  knows  this  love  in  me : 
And  by  him  seal  up  thy  mind; 
Whether  that  thy  youth  and  kind 
Will  the  faithful  offer  take 
Of  me,  and  all  that  I  can  make; 
Or  else  by  him  my  love  deny, 
And  then  I'll  study  how  to  die. 
Sil.    Call  you  this  chiding  ? 
Cel.    Alas,  poor  shepherd ! 

Ros.    Do  you  pity  him  ?    No,  he  deserves  no  pity. — Wilt 
thou  love  such  a  woman  ?  — What,  to  make  thee  an  instru- 


Act  IV.]  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  631 

ment,  and  play  false  strains  upon  thee  !  Not  to  be  endured ! 
— Well,  go  your  way  to  her,  (for  I  see,  love  hath  made  thee 
a  tame  snake,)  and  say  this  to  her;  —  That  if  she  love  me. 
I  charge  her  to  love  thee ;  if  she  will  not,  I  will  never  have 
her,  unless  thou  entreat  for  her.  —  If  you  be  a  true  lover, 
hence,  and  not  a  word ;  for  here  comes  more  company. 

[JExit  SiLViUS. 
Enter  Oliver. 

Oil.    Good-morrow,  fair  ones.     Pray  you,  if  you  know 
"Where,  in  the  purlieus  of  this  forest,  stands 
A  sheep-cote,  fenced  about  with  olive-trees? 

Cel.    West  of  this  place,  down  in  the  neighbor  bottom, 
The  rank  of  osiers  by  the  murmuring  stream, 
Left  on  your  right  hand,  brings  you  to  the  place ; 
But  at  this  hour  the  house  doth  keep  itself; 
There's  none  within. 

on.    If  that  an  eye  may  profit  by  a  tongue, 
Then  I  should  know  you  by  description ; 
Such  garments,  and  such  years.      The  hoy  is  fair, 
Of  female  favor,  and  hestotvs  himself 
Like  a  ripe  sister;  but  the  woman  loiv, 
And  hroivner  than  her  brother.     Are  not  you 
The  owner  of  the  house  I  did  inquire  for? 

Cel.    It  is  no  boast,  being  asked,  to  say  we  are. 

Oli.    Orlando  doth  commend  him  to  you  both ; 
And  to  that  youth,  he  calls  his  Rosalind, 
He  sends  this  bloody  napkin.     Are  you  he? 

Bos.   I  am.     What  must  we  understand  by  this? 

Oli.    Some  of  my  shame;  if  you  will  know  of  me 
What  man  I  am,  and  how,  and  why,  and  where 
This  handkerchief  was  stained. 

Cel.  I  pray  you,  tell  it. 

OIL    When  last  the  young  Orlando  parted  from  you, 
He  left  a  promise  to  return  again 
Within  an  hour  ;  and,  pacing  through  the  forest. 
Chewing  the  food  of  sweet  and  bitter  fancy, 
Lo,  what  befell !     He  threw  his  eye  aside, 
And,  mark,  what  object  did  present  itself! 
Under  an  oak,  whose  boughs  were  mossed  with  age, 
And  high  top  bald  with  dry  antiquity, 
A  wretched,  ragged  man,  o'ergrown  with  hair, 
.Lay  sleeping  on  his  back.     About  his  neck 
A  green  and  gilded  snake  had  wreathed  itself, 
Who  with  her  head,  nimble  in  threats,  approached 
The  opening  of  his  mouth;  but  suddenly, 


632  AS    roil   LIKE   IT,  [Act  IV 

Seeing  Orlando,  it  unlinked  itself, 

And  vitli  indented  glides  did  slip  away 

Into  a  bush  ;  under  which  bush's  shade 

A  lioness,  with  udders  all  drawn  dry, 

Lay  couching,  head  on  ground,   with  catlike  watch. 

When  that  the  sleeping  man  should  stir;  for  'tig 

The  royal  disposition  of  that  beast, 

To  prey  on  nothing  that  doth  seem  as  dead. 

This  seen,   Orlando  did  approach  the  man. 

And  found  it  was  his  brother,  his  elder  brother. 

Ceh    0,  1  have  heard  him  speak  of  that  same  brother! 
And  he  did  render  him  the  most  unnatural 
That  lived  'mongst  men. 

Oli.  And  well  he  might  so  do, 

For  well  I  know  he  was  unnatural. 

Ros.    But,  to  Orlando. — Did  he  leave  him   there, 
Food  to  the  sucked  and  hungry  lioness? 

Oli.    Twice  did  he  turn  his  back,  and  purposed  so 
But  kindness,  nobler  ever  than  revenge, 
And  nature,  stronger  than  his  just  occasion, 
Made  him  give  battle  to  the  lioness, 
Who  quickly  fell  before  him  ;  in  which  hurtling 
From  miserable  slumber  I  awaked. 

Gel.    Are  you  his  brother  ? 

Ros.  Was  it  you  he  rescued? 

Oel.    Was't  you  that  did  so  oft  contrive  to  kill  him? 

Oli.    'Twas  I ;  but  'tis  not  I.     I  do  not  shame 
To  tell  you  what  I  was,  since  my  conversion 
So  sweetly  tastes,  being  the  thing  I  am. 

Ros.    But,  for  the  bloody  napkin  ?  — 

Oli.  By  and  by. 

When  from  the  first  to  last,  betwixt  us  two, 
Tears  our  recountments  had  most  kindly  bathed ; 

As,  how  I  came  into  that  desert  place ; 

In  brief  he  led  me  to  the  gentle  duke. 

Who  gave  me  fresh  array  and  entertainment. 

Committing  me  unto  my  brother's  love ; 

Who  led  me  instantly  unto  his  cave. 

There  stripped  himself,  and  here  upon  his  arm 

The  lioness  had  torn  some  flesh  away, 

Which  all  this  while  had  bled ;  and  now  he  fainted. 

And  cried,  in  fainting,  upon  Rosalind. 

Brief,  I  recovered  him;  bound  up  his  wound; 

And,  after  some  small  space,  being  strong  at  heart, 

He  sent  me  hither,  stranger  as  I  am, 

To  tell  this  story,  that  you  might  excuse 


Act  v.]  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT.  633 

His  broken  promise,  and  to  give  this  napkin, 
Dyed  in  his  blood,  unto  the  shepherd  youth 
That  he  in  sport  doth  call  his  Rosalind. 

Cel.    Why,  how  now,  Ganymede?     Sweet  Gmymede? 

[Rosalind  faint» 

Oli.    Many  will  swoon  when  they  do  look  on  blood. 

Gel.    There  is  more  in  it. —  Cousin  —  Ganymede ! 

Oli.    Look,  he  recovers. 

Jlos.  I  would  I  were  at  home. 

Cel.    We'll  lead  you  thither.— 
I  pray  you,  will  you  take  him  by  the  arm  ? 

Oli.  Be  of  good  cheer,  youth. — You  a  man  ! — You  lack 
a  man's  heart. 

Ros.  I  do  so,  I  confess  it.  Ah,  sir,  a  body  would  think 
this  was  well  counterfeited ;  I  pray  you,  tell  your  brother 
how  well  I  counterfeited. —  Heigh  ho  !  — 

Oli.  This  was  not  counterfeit ;  there  is  too  great  testi- 
monY  in  your  complexion,  that  it  was  a  passion  of  earnest. 

Ros.    Counterfeit,  I  assure  you. 

Oli.  Well,  then,  take  a  good  heart,  and  counterfeit  to 
be  a  man. 

Ros.  So  I  do ;  but,  i'  faith,  I  should  have  been  a  woman 
by  right. 

Cel  Come,  you  look  paler  and  paler;  pray  you,  draw 
homewards. —  Good  sir,  go  with  us. 

Oli.    That  will  I,  for  1  must  bear  answer  back 
How  you  excuse  my  brother,  Rosalind. 

Ros.  I  shall  devise  something ;  but,  I  pray  you,  commend 
my  counterfeiting  to  him. — Will  you  go?  [^Exeunt. 


ACT   V. 

SCENE  I.     The  same. 
Enter  Touchstone  and  Audrey. 

Touch.   We  shall  find  a  time,  Audrey ;  patience,  gentle 

Audrey.  ,       , , 

Aud.    'Faith,  the  priest  was  good  enough,  tor  all  the  old 

gentleman's  saying.  . 

Touch.  A  most  wicked  sir  Oliver,  Audrey,  a  most  vile 
Mar-text.  But,  Audrey,  there  is  a  youth  here  in  the  forest 
lays  claim  to  you. 


634  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  [Act  V 

Aud.  Ay,  I  know  ■who  'tis;  he  liath  no  interest  in  mo  in 
the  world.     Here  comes  the  man  you  mean. 

JEnter  William. 

Touch.  It  is  meat  and  drink  to  me  to  see  a  clown.  By 
my  troth,  we  that  have  good  wits,  have  much  to  answer  "^or ; 
we  shall  he  flouting ;  we  cannot  hold. 

Will.    Good  even,  Audrey. 

Aud.    God  ye  good  even,  William. 

Will.    And  good  even  to  you,  sir. 

Touch.  Good  even,  gentle  friend.  Cover  thy  head,  cover 
thy  head ;  nay,  pr'ythee,  be  covered.  How  old  are  you, 
friend  ? 

Will.    Five-and-twenty,  sir. 

Touch.    A  ripe  age.     Is  thy  name  William  ? 

Will.    William,  sir. 

Touch.    A  fair  name.     Wast  born  i'  the  forest  here? 

Will.    Ay,  sir,  I  thank  God. 

Touch.    Thauk  God;  —  a  good  answer.     Art  rich? 

Will.    'Faith,  sir,  so,  so. 

Touch.    So,  so,  is  good,  very  good,  very  excellent  good ; 

—  and  yet  it  is  not ;  it  is  but  so,  so.     Art  thou  wise  ? 
Will.    Ay,  sir,  I  have  a  pretty  wit. 

Touch.  Why,  thou  say'st  well.  I  do  now  remember  a 
saying ;  The  fool  doth  think  he  is  wise,  but  the  wise  man 
knows  himself  to  be  a  fool.  The  heathen  philosopher,  when 
he  had  a  desire  to  eat  a  grape,  woi^ld  open  his  lips  when  he 
put  it  into  his  mouth ;  meaning  thereby  that  grapes  were 
made  to  eat,  and  lips  to  open.     You  do  love  this  maid  ? 

Will    I  do,  sir. 

Touch.    Give  me  your  hand.     Art  thou  learned? 

Will.    No,  sir. 

Touch.  Then  learn  this  of  me.  To  have,  is  to  have ;  for 
it  is  a  figure  in  rhetoric,  that  drink,  being  poured  out  of  a 
cup  into  a  glass,  by  filling  the  one  doth  empty  the  other ; 
for  all  your  writers  do  consent,  that  ipse  is  he ;  now  you  are 
not  ipse,  for  I  am  he. 

Will.   Which  he,  sir? 

Touch.  He,  sir,  that  must  marry  this  woman.  Therefore, 
you  clown,  abandon,  —  which  is  in  the  vulgar,  leave, — the 
society, — which  in  the  boorish  is,  company, — of  this  female, 

—  which  in  the  common  is,  —  woman,  which  together  is, 
abandon  the  society  of  this  female ;  or,  clown,  thou  perish- 
est ;  or,  to  thy  better  understahding,  diest ;  or,  to  wit,  I  kill 
thee,  make  thee  away,  translate  thy  life  into  death,  thy 
liberty  into  bondage.     I  will  deal  in  poison  with  thee,  or  in 


Act  v.]  AS   YOU  LIKE  IT.  635 

bastinado,  or  in  steel ;  I  will  bandj  with  thee  in  faction ;  I 
will  o'erruu  thee  with  policy ;  I  Avill  kill  thee  a  hundi-ed  and 
fifty  ways  :  therefore  tremble  and  depart. 

Aud.    Do,  good  William. 

Will.    God  rest  you,  merry  sir.  [Exit 

Enter  CoRiN. 

Cor.  Our  master  and  mistress  seek  you;  come,  away, 
away. 

Touch.   Trip,  Audrey,  trip,  Audrey. — I  attend,  I  attend 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE  11.     The  same. 
Enter  Orlando  and  Oliver. 

Orl.  Is't  possible,  that  on  so  little  acquaintance  you  should 
like  her  ?  that  but  seeing,  you  should  love  her  ?  and,  loving, 
woo  ?  and,  wooing,  she  should  grant  ?  and  will  you  persever 
to  enjoy  her  ? 

Oli.  Neither  call  the  giddiness  of  it  in  question,  the 
poverty  of  her,  the  small  acquaintance,  my  sudden  wooing, 
nor  her  sudden  consenting ;  but  say  with  me,  I  love  Aliena ; 
say  with  her,  that  she  loves  me ;  consent  with  both,  that  we 
may  enjoy  each  other.  It  shall  be  to  your  good ;  for  my 
father's  house,  and  all  the  revenue  that  was  old  sir  Rowland's, 
will  I  estate  upon  you,  and  here  live  and  die  a  shepherd. 

Enter  Rosalind. 

Orl.  You  have  my  consent.  Let  your  wedding  be  to- 
morrow :  thither  will  I  invite  the  duke,  and  all  hi.s  contented 
followers.  Go  you,  and  prepare  Aliena ;  for,  look  you,  here 
comes  my  Rosalind. 

Ros.    God  save  you,  brother. 

Oli.    And  you,  fair  sister. 

Ros.  0,  my  dear  Orlando,  how  it  grieves  me  to  see  thee 
wear  thy  heart  in  a  scarf. 

Orl.    It  is  my  arm. 

Ros.  I  thought  thy  heart  had  been  wounded  with  the 
claws  of  a  lion. 

Orl.    Wounded  it  is,  but  with  the  eyes  of  a  lady. 

Ros.  Did  your  brother  tell  you  how  I  counterfeited  to 
swoon,  when  he  showed  me  your  handkerchief? 

Orl.    Ay,  and  greater  wonders  than  that. 

Ros.  0,  I  know  where  you  are. —  Nay,  'tis  true:  there 
never  was  any  tiling  so  sudden,  but  tlie  fight  of  two  rams, 
and  Csesar's  thrasonical  brag  of — I  came,  saw,  and  over- 


()86  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT.  [Act  V. 

came.  For  your  brother  and  my  sister  no  looner  met,  but 
tlioy  looked;  no  sooner  looked,  but  they  loved;  no  sooner 
loved,  but  they  sighed ;  no  sooner  sighed,  but  they  asked 
one  another  the  reason  ;  no  sooner  knew  the  reason,  but 
they  sought  the  remedy :  and  in  these  degrees  have  they 
made  a  pair  of  stairs  to  marriage,  which  they  will  climb  in- 
continent, or  else  be  incontinent  before  marriage.  They 
are  in  the  very  wrath  of  love,  and  they  will  together ;  clubs 
cannot  part  them. 

Orl.  They  shall  be  married  to-morrow ;  and  I  will  bid 
the  duke  to  the  nuptial.  But,  0,  how  bitter  a  thing  it  is  to 
look  into  happiness  through  another  man's  eyes !  By  so 
much  the  more  shall  I  to-morrow  be  at  the  height  of  heart- 
heaviness,  by  how  much  I  shall  think  my  brother  happy,  in 
having  what  he  wishes  for. 

Ros.  Why,  then,  to-morrow  I  cannot  serve  your  turn  for 
Rosalind  ? 

Orl.    I  can  live  no  longer  by  thinking. 

Ros.  I  will  weary  you  no  longer  then  with  idle  talking. 
Know  of  me  then,  (for  now  I  speak  to  some  purpose,)  that 
I  know  you  are  a  gentleman  of  good  conceit.  I  speak  not 
this,  that  you  should  bear  a  good  opinion  of  my  knowledge,  in- 
somuch, I  say,  I  know  you  are ;  neither  do  I  labor  for  a  greater 
esteem  than  may  in  some  little  measure  draw  a  belief  from 
you,  to  do  yourself  good,  and  not  to  grace  me.  Believe 
then,  if  you  please,  that  I  can  do  strange  things ;  I  have, 
since  I  was  three  years  old,  conversed  with  a  magician,  most 
profound  in  this  art,  and  yet  not  damnable.  If  you  do  love 
Rosalind  so  near  the  heart  as  your  gesture  cries  it  out,  when 
your  brother  marries  Aliena,  shall  you  marry  her.  I  know 
into  what  straits  of  fortune  she  is  driven ;  and  it  is  not  im- 
possible to  me,  if  it  appear  not  inconvenient  to  you,  to  set 
her  before  your  eyes  to-morrow ;  human  as  she  is,  and  with- 
out any  danger. 

Orl.    Speakest  thou  in  sober  meanings  ? 

Ros.  By  my  life,  I  do,  which  I  tender  dearly,  though  I 
say  I  am  a  magician.  Therefore  put  you  in  your  best  array ; 
bid  your  friends ;  for  if  you  will  be  married  to-morrow,  you 
shall ;  and  to  Rosalind,  if  you  will. 

Enter  SiLVius  and  Phebe. 

Look,  here  comes  a  lover  of  mine,  and  a  lover  of  hers. 

Phe.    Youth,  you  have  done  me  much  ungentleness, 
To  show  the  letter  that  I  writ  to  you. 

Ros.    I  care  not,  if  I  have ;  it  is  my  study 
To  seem  despiteful  and  ungentle  to  you. 


ActY]  as  you   like   it.  637 

You  are  there  followed  by  a  faithful  shepherd; 
Look  upon  him,  love  him ;  he  ^yorships  you. 

Fhe.  Good  shepherd,  tell  this  youth  what  'tis  to  love. 

Sil.    It  is  to  be  all  made  of  sighs  and  tears;  — 
And  so  am  I  for  Phebe. 

Phe.    And  I  for  Ganymede. 

Orl.    And  I  for  Rosalind. 

Ros.    And  I  for  no  woman. 

Sil.    It  is  to  be  all  made  of  faith  and  service;  — 
And  so  am  I  for  Phebe. 

Phe.    And  I  for  Ganymede. 

Orl.    And  I  for  Rosalind. 

Ros.    And  I  for  no  woman. 

Sil.    It  is  to  be  all  made  of  fantasy, 
All  made  of  passion,  and  all  made  of  wishes; 
All  adoration,  duty,  and  observance, 
All  humbleness,  all  patience,  and  impatience, 
All  purity,  all  trial,  all  obeisance ;  — 
And  so  am  I  for  Phebe. 

Phe.    And  so  am  I  for  Ganymede. 

Orl.    And  so  am  I  for  Rosalind. 

Ros.    And  so  am  I  for  no  woman. 

Phe.    If  this  be  so,  why  blame  you  me  to  love  you? 

[^To  Rosalind 

Sil.    If  this  be  so,  why  blame  you  me  to  love  you? 

[To    PlIEBE 

Orl.    If  this  be  so,  why  blame  you  me  to  love  you? 

Ros.  Who  do  you  speak  to  —  why  blame  you  me  to  love 
you? 

Orl.    To  her  that  is  not  here ;  nor  doth  not  hear. 

Ros.  Pray  you,  no  more  of  this ;  'tis  like  the  howling  of 
Irish  wolves  against  the  moon. — I  will  help  you,  \^To  8iL- 
vius.]  if  I  can. — I  would  love  you,  [To  Phebe.]  if  I  could. 
To-morrow  meet  me  all  together. — I  will  marry  you,  \^To 
Phebe.]  if  ever  I  marry  woman,  and  I'll  be  married  to-mor- 
row.— I  will  satisfy  you,  [To  Orlando.]  if  ever  I  satisfied 
man,  and  you  shall  be  married  to-morrow. — I  will  content 
you,  [To  SiLVius.]  if  what  pleases  you  contents  you,  and 
you  siiall  be  married  to-morrow. — As  you  [To  Orlando.] 
love  Rosalind,  meet;  —  as  you  \_Tg  Silvius.]  love  Phebe, 
meet;  and  as  I  love  no  woman,  I'll  meet. —  So  fare  you 
well:  I  have  left  you  commands. 

Sil.    I'll  not  fail,  if  I  Hve. 

Phe.  Nor  I. 

Orl.  Nor  I.     [^Exiunt. 

3d 


638  AS  YOU   LIKE   IT.  [Act  V 

SCENE  III.     The  mme. 
Enter  Touchstone  and  Audrey. 

Touch.  To-morrow  is  the  joyful  day,  Audrey ;  to-morrow 
will  Ave  be  married. 

Aud.  I  do  desire  it  with  all  my  heart ;  and  I  hope  it  is 
no  dishonest  desire,  to  desire  to  be  a  woman  of  the  world. 
Here  comes  two  of  the  banished  duke's  pages. 

Enter  two  Pages. 

1  Page.    Well  met,  honest  gentleman. 

Touch.  By  my  troth,  well  met.  Come,  sit,  sit,  and  a 
song. 

2  Page.    We  are  for  you ;  sit  i'the  middle. 

1  Page.  Shall  we  clap  into't  roundly,  without  hawking, 
or  spitting,  or  saying  we  are  hoarse ;  which  are  the  only 
prologues  to  a  bad  voice. 

2  Page.  I'faith,  i'faith  ;  and  both  in  tune,  like  two  gipsies 
on  a  horse. 

SONG. 
I. 

It  was  a  lover  and  his  lass, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 
That  o'er  the  green  corn-field  did  pass, 

In  the  spriiig  time,  the  orty  pretty  rank  time^ 
Wlien  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding ; 
Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring. 

II. 

Between  the  acres  of  the  rye, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino. 
These  pretty  country  folks  would  lie, 

In  spring  time,  &c. 

III. 

This  carol  they  began  that  hour. 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 
How  that  a  life  was  but  a  flower 
In  spring  time,  &c. 

IV. 

And  therefore  take  the  present  time, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino; 

For  love  is  crowned  with  the  prime 
In  spring  time,  &c. 


Act  v.]  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT.  639 

Touch.  Truly,  young  gentlemen,  though  there  "was  no 
great  matter  in  the  ditty,  yet  the  note  was  very  untunable. 

1  Page.  You  are  deceived,  sir ;  we  kept  time,  we  lost  not 
our  time. 

Touch.  By  ay  troth,  yes;  I  count  it  but  time  lost  to 
hear  such  a  foolish  song.  God  be  with  you ;  and  God  mend 
your  voices  !     Come,  Audrey.  \^Exeunt 

SCENE  IV.     Another  Part  of  the  Forest. 

Enter  Duke  senior^  Amiens,  Jaques,  Orlando,  Oliver, 
and  Celia. 

Bulce  S.    Dost  thou  believe,  Orlando,  that  the  boy 
Can  do  all  this  that  he  hath  promised? 

Orl.    I  sometimes  do  believe,  and  sometimes  do  not; 
As  those  that  fear  they  hope,  and  know  they  fear. 

Enter  Rosalind,  Silvius,  and  Phebe. 

Bos.  Patience  once  more,  whiles  our  compnct  is  urged.— 
You  say,  if  I  bring  in  your  Rosalind,  [To  the  Duko- 
You  will  bestow  her  on  Orlando  here? 

Duke  S.  That  would  I,  had  I  kingdoms  to  give  with  her. 

Bos.    And  you  say,  you  will  have  her  when  I  bring  her  ? 

[To  Orlando 

Orl.    That  would  I,  were  I  of  all  kingdoms  king. 

Bos.    You  say,  you'll  marry  me,  if  I  be  willing? 

[To   PUEBE. 

Phe.    That  will  I,  should  I  die  the  hour  after. 

Bos.    But  if  you  do  refuse  to  marry  me, 
You'll  give  yourself  to  this  most  faithful  shepherd? 

Phe.    So  is  the  bargain. 

Bos.    You  say,  that  you'll  have  Phebe,  if  she  will  i 

*^'  "^  [To  Silvius. 

Sil.  Though  to  have  her  and  death  were  both  one  thing. 

Bos.    I  have  promised  to  make  all  this  matter  even. 
Keep  you  your  word,  0  duke,  to  give  your  daughter  ;-- 
You  yours,  Orlando,  to  receive  his  daughter:  — 
Keep  your  word,  Phebe,  that  you'll  marry  me; 
Or  else,  refusing  me,  to  wed  this  shepherd:  — 
Keep  your  word,  Silvius,  that  you'll  marry  her, 
If  she  refuse  me:  — and  from  hence  I  go. 
To  make  these  doubts  all  even. 

[Exeunt  Rosalind  and  Celu. 

Duke  S.    I  do  remember  in  this  shepherd-boy 
Some  lively  touches  of  my  daughter's  favor. 


6^0  AS   YOU   LIKE  IT.  [Act  V 

Orl.    M;^  lord,  the  first  time  that  I  ever  saw  him, 
Methought  he  was  a  brother  to  your  daughter: 
But,  my  good  lord,  this  boy  is  forest-born ; 
And  hath  been  tutored  in  the  rudiments 
Of  many  desperate  studies  by  his  uncle, 
Whom  he  reports  to  be  a  great  magician. 
Obscured  in  the  circle  of  this  forest. 

Enter  Touchstone  and  Audrey. 

Jaq.  There  is,  sure,  another  flood  toward,  and  these 
couples  are  coming  to  the  ark !  Here  comes  a  pair  of  very 
strange  beasts,  which  in  all  tongues  are  called  fools. 

Touch.    Salutation  and  greeting  to  you  all ! 

Jaq.  Good  my  lord,  bid  him  welcome.  This  is  the  mot- 
ley-minded gentleman,  that  I  have  so  often  met  in  the  forest : 
im  hath  been  a  courtier,  he  swears. 

Touch.  If  any  man  doubt  that,  let  him  put  me  to  my  pur- 
gation. I  have  trod  a  measure ;  I  have  flattered  a  lady ;  I 
have  been  politic  with  my  friend,  smooth  with  mine  enemy; 
I  have  undone  three  tailors  :  I  have  had  four  quarrels,  and 
like  to  have  fought  one. 

Jaq.    And  how  was  that  ta'en  up  ? 

Touch.  'Faith,  we  met,  and  found  the  quarrel  was  upon 
the  seventh  cause. 

Jacp  How  seventh  cause  ? — Good  my  lord,  like  this  fellow 

Duke  S.    I  like  him  very  well 

Touch.  God'ild  you,  sir ;  I  desire  you  of  the  like.  I 
press  in  here,  sir,  amongst  the  rest  of  the  country  copula- 
tives, to  swear,  and  to  forswear ;  according  as  marriage 
binds,  and  blood  breaks.  —  A  poor  virgin,  sir,  an  ill-favored 
thing,  sir,  but  mine  own ;  a  poor  humor  of  mine,  sir,  to 
take  that  that  no  man  else  will.  Rich  honesty  dwells  like 
a  miser,  sir,  in  a  poor  house ;  as  your  pearl  in  your  foul 
oyster. 

Duke  S.    By  my  faith,  he  is  very  swift  and  sententious. 

Touch.  According  to  the  fool's  bolt,  sir,  and  such  dulcet 
diseases. 

Jaq.  But,  for  the  seventh  cause ;  how  did  you  find  the 
quarrel  on  the  seventh  cause  ? 

Touch.  Upon  a  lie  seven  times  removed.  —  Bear  your 
body  more  seeming,  Audrey  :  —  as  thus,  sir.  I  did  dislike 
the  cut  of  a  certain  courtier's  beard ;  he  sent  me  word,  if  1 
said  his  beard  was  not  cut  well,  he  was  in  the  mind  it  was : 
this  is  called  the  Retort  courteous.  If  I  send  him  word 
again,  it  was  not  well  cut,  he  would  send  me  word,  he  cut  it 
to  please  himself:  this  is  called  the  Quip  modest.     If  again, 


Act  v.]  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  G41 

it  was  not  well  cut,  lie  disabled  my  judgment :  this  is  called 
the  Reply  churlish.  If  again,  it  was  not  ^^ell  cut,  he  would 
answer,  I  spake  not  true :  this  is  called  the  Reproof  valiant. 
If  again,  it  was  not  well  cut,  he  would  say,  I  lie :  thi<i  is 
called  the  Countercheck  quarrelsome :  and  so  the  Lie  cir- 
cumstantial, and  the  Lie  direct. 

Jaq.  And  how  oft  did  you  say,  his  beard  was  not  well 
cut? 

Touch.  I  durst  go  no  further  than  the  Lie  circumstantial, 
nor  he  durst  not  give  me  the  Lie  direct;  and  so  we  measured 
Bwords,  and  parted. 

Jaq.  Can  you  nominate  in  order  now  the  degrees  of  the 
lie? 

Touch.  0,  sir,  we  quarrel  in  print,  by  the  book ;  as  you 
have  books  for  good  manners.  I  will  name  you  the  degrees. 
The  first,  the  Retort  courteous ;  the  second,  the  Quip  modest ; 
the  third,  the  Reply  churlish ;  the  fourth,  the  Reproof 
valiant ;  the  fifth,  the  Countercheck  quarrelsome ;  the 
sixth,  the  Lie  with  circumstance ;  the  seventh,  the  Lie 
direct.  All  these  you  may  avoid,  but  the  lie  direct,  and 
you  may  avoid  that  too,  with  an  If.  I  knew  when  seven 
justices  could  not  take  up  a  quarrel ;  but  when  the  parties 
were  met  themselves,  one  of  them  thought  but  of  an  If  as 
If  you  said  so,  then  I  said  so  ;  and  they  shook  hands,  and 
swore  brothers.  Your  If  is  the  only  peace-maker ;  mucli 
virtue  in  If. 

Jaq.  Is  not  this  a  rare  fellow,  my  lord  ?  He's  as  good 
at  any  thing,  and  yet  a  fool. 

Duke  S.  He  uses  his  folly  like  a  stalking-horse,  and  under 
the  presentation  of  that,  he  shoots  his  wit. 

Unter  Hymen  leading  Rosalind  in  women  s  clothes ;  and 

Celia. 

Still  Music. 

Hym     Then  is  there  mirth  in  heaven. 
When  earthly  things,  made  even. 

Atone  together. 
G-ood  duke,  receive  thy  daughter; 
Hymen  from  heaven  brought  her, 

Yea,  brought  her  hither; 
That  thou  might' st  join  her  hand  with  his 
WJwse  heart  within  her  bosom  is. 
Ros.  To  you  I  give  myself,  for  I  ara  yours.—   [  To  Duke  S. 
To  you  I  give  myself,  for  I  am  yours.  ^To  Orlando. 

Duke  S.  If  there  be  truth  in  sight,  you  arc  my  daughter. 
Vol.  L— 41  3d* 


642  AS  YOU   LIKE  IT.  [Act  V. 

Orl.    If  there  be  truth  in  sight,  you  are  mj  Rosalind. 
Phe.    If  sight  and  shape  be  true, 
Why  then,  —  my  love  adieu  ! 

Ros.  I'll  have  no  father,  if  you  be  not  he. —    [To  Duke  S 
I'll  have  no  husband,  if  you  be  not  he  ; —       \_To  Orlando. 
Nor  ne'er  wed  woman,  if  you  be  not  she. —        [To  Phebe. 
Hym.    Peace,  ho !     I  bar  confusion. 
'Tis  I  must  make  conclusion 

Of  these  most  strange  events : 
Here's  eight  that  must  take  hands, 
To  join  in  Hymen's  bands. 
If  truth  holds  true  contents. 
You  and  you  no  cross  shall  part : 

[To  Orlando  and  Rosalind 
You  and  you  are  heart  in  heart : 

{To  Oliver  and  Celia. 
You  \To  Phebe.]  to  his  love  must  accord, 
Or  have  a  woman  to  your  lord :  — 
STou  and  you  are  sure  together, 

{To  Touchstone  and  Audrey. 
As  the  winter  to  foul  weather. 
Whiles  a  wedlock-hymn  we  sing, 
Feed  yourselves  with  questioning ; 
That  reason  wonder  may  diminish, 
How  thus  we  met,  and  these  things  finish. 

SONG. 

Wedding  is  great  Juno's  erow7i ; 

0  blessed  bond  of  board  and  bed ! 
*  Tis  Hymen  peoples  every  town  ; 

High  wedlock  then  be  honored. 
Honor,  high  honor  and  renown, 
To  Hymen,  god  of  every  town  ! 

DuJce  jS.    0  my  dear  niece,  welcome  thou  art  to  me ; 
Even  daughter,  welcome  in  no  less  degree. 

Phe.    I  will  not  eat  my  word,  now  thou  art  mine ; 
Thy  faith  my  fancy  to  thee  doth  combine.         {To  SlLVlua 

Hnter  Jaques  de  Bois. 

Jaq.  de  B.    Let  me  have  audience  for  a  word  or  two ; 
I  am  the  second  son  of  old  Sir  Rowland, 
That  bring  these  tidings  to  this  ftiir  assembly. — 
Duke  Frederick,  hearing  how  that  every  day 
Men  of  great  worth  resorted  to  this  forest, 
Addressed  a  mighty  power;  which  were  on  foot, 


Act  v.]  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT.  643 

In  his  own  conduct  purposely  to  take 
His  brother  here,  and  put  him  to  the  sword; 
And  to  the  skirts  of  this  wild  wood  he  came ; 
Where,  meeting  with  an  old  religious  man, 
After  some  question  with  him,  was  converted 
Both  from  his  enterprise,  and  from  the  world ; 
His  crown  bequeathing  to  his  banished  brother, 
And  all  their  lands  restored  to  them  again 
That  were  with  him  exiled.     This  to  be  true, 
I  do  engage  my  life. 

Duke  S.  Welcome,  young  man : 

Thou  offer'st  fairly  to  thy  brother's  wedding: 
To  one,  his  lands  withheld ;  and  to  the  other, 
A  land  itself  at  large,  a  potent  dukedom. 
First,  in  this  forest,  let  us  do  those  ends 
That  here  were  well  begun,  and  well  begot ; 
And  after,  every  of  this  happy  number. 
That  have  endured  shrewd  days  and  nights  with  us, 
Shall  share  the  good  of  our  returned  fortune, 
According  to  the  measure  of  their  states. 
Meantime,  forget  this  new-fallen  dignity, 
And  fall  into  our  rustic  revelry, — 
Play,  music ;  —  and  you,  brides  and  bridegrooms  all, 
With  measure  heaped  in  joy,  to  the  measures  fall. 

Jaq.    Sir,  by  your  patience ;  if  I  heard  you  rightly, 
The  duke  hath  put  on  a  religious  life, 
And  thrown  into  neglect  the  pompous  court? 

Jaq.  de  B.    He  hath. 

Jaq.    To  him  will  I ;  out  of  these  convertites 
There  is  much  matter  to  be  heard  and  learned. — 
You  to  your  former  honor  I  bequeath:         [jTo  Duke  S. 
Your  patience  and  your  virtue  well  deserve  it :  — - 
You   \_Tb  Orlando.]  to  a  love  that  your  true  faith  doth 

merit :  — 
You   [To    Oliver.]    to   your   land   and   love,    and   great 

allies :  — 
You  [jTo  Silvius.]  to  a  long  and  well  deserved  bed:-— 
And  you  [To  Touchstone.]  towranghng;  for  thy  loving 

voyage 
Is  but  for  two  months  victualled.  —  So  to  your  pleasures ; 
I  am  for  other  than  for  dancing  measures. 

Duke  S.    Stay,  Jaques,  stay. 

Jaq.    To  see  no  pastime,  I.— What  you  would  have,  _ 
I'll  stay  to  know  at  your  abandoned  cave.  [^Exit. 

Duke  S.    Proceed,  proceed.     We  will  begin  these  rites, 
And  we  do  trust  they'll  end  in  true  delights.         [^1  dance. 


644  AS   YOU   LIKP   IT.  [Act  V 


EPILOGUE. 

Ros.  It  is  not  the  fashion  to  see  the  lady  the  epilogue ; 
but  it  is  no  more  unhandsome,  than  to  see  the  lord  the  pro- 
logue. If  it  be  true,  that  good  wine  needs  no  bush,  'tis  true 
that  a  good  play  needs  no  epilogue :  yet  to  good  wine  they 
do  use  good  bushes ;  and  good  plays  prove  the  better  by  the 
help  of  good  epilogues.  What  a  case  am  I  in,  then,  that  am 
neither  a  good  epilogue,  nor  cannot  insinuate  with  you  in 
the  behalf  of  a  good  play  ?  I  am  not  furnished  like  a  beg- 
gar ;  therefore  to  beg  will  not  become  me.  My  way  is,  to 
conjure  you ;  and  I'll  begin  with  the  women.  I  charge  you, 
0  women,  for  the  love  you  bear  to  men,  to  like  as  much  of 
this  play  as  please  you :  and  I  charge  you,  0  men,  for  the 
love  you  bear  to  women,  (as  I  perceive,  by  your  simpering, 
none  of  you  hate  them,)  that  between  you  and  the  women 
the  play  may  please.  If  I  were  a  woman,  I  would  kiss  as 
many  of  you  as  had  beards  that  pleased  me,  complexions 
that  liked  me,  and  breaths  that  I  defied  not ;  and  I  am 
sm'e,  as  many  as  have  good  beards,  or  good  faces,  or  sweet 
breaths,  will,  for  my  kind  offer,  when  I  make  courtesy,  bid 
me  farewell.  \^Exeunt. 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


645 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

King  of  France. 
Dake  of  Florence. 
Bertram,  Count  of  Koussillon. 
Lafeu,  an  old  Lord. 
Parolles,  a  follower  of  Bertram. 

Several  young  French  Lords,  that  serve  with  Bertram  in 
the  Florentine  war. 

rio        '  I  Servants  to  the  Countess  of  Roussillon. 
A  Page. 

(JDuntess  of  Roiisillon,  Mot  tier  to  Bertram. 
Helena,  a  Gentlewoman  -protected  by  the  Countess. 
An  old  Widow  of  Floren^o. 
Dtana,  Daughter  to  iht   Widow. 

Mariana  '  f  '^^'g^hors  and  Friends  to  the   Widow. 

Lords,  attending  on  the  King ;  Officers,  Soldiers,  Sfc  •, 
French  and  Florentine. 

SCENE,  partly  in  France,  and  partly  in  Tuscanj, 

(646) 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


ACT   I. 


SCENE  I.    Rousillon.    A  Room  in  the  Countess's  Palace. 

Enter  Bertram,  the  Countess  of  Rousillon,  Helena,  and 
Lafeu,  in  mourning. 

Countess.  In  delivering  my  son  from  me,  I  bury  a  second 
husband. 

Ber.  And  I,  in  going,  madam,  weep  o'er  my  father's 
death  anew:  but  I  must  attend  his  majesty's  command,  to 
whom  I  am  now  in  ward,  evermore  in  subjection. 

Laf.  You  shall  find  of  the  king  a  husband,  madam:  — 
you,  sir,  a  father.  He  that  so  generally  is  at  all  times  good, 
must  of  necessity  hold  his  virtue  to  you ;  whose  worthiness 
would  stir  it  up  were  it  wanted,  rather  than  lack  it  where 
there  is  such  abundance. 

Count.    What  hope  is  there  of  his  majesty's  amendment  ? 

Laf.    He  hath  abandoned  his  physicians,  madam ;  under 

whose  practices  he  hath  persecuted  time  with  hope ;    and 

finds  no  other  advantage  in  the  process  but  only  the  losing 

of  hope  by  time. 

Count.  This  young  gentlewoman  had  a  father,  (0  that 
had !  how  sad  a  passage  'tis  !)  whose  skill  was  almost  as 
great  as  his  honesty ;  had  it  stretched  so  far,  would  have 
made  nature  immortal,  and  death  should  have  play  for  lack 
of  work.  'Would,  for  the  king's  sake,  he  wore  living!  I 
think,  it  would  be  the  death  of  the  king's  disease. 
Laf.  How  called  you  the  man  you  speak  of,  madam  ? 
Count.  He  was  famous,  sir,  in  his  profession,  and  it  was 
his  great  right  to  be  so ;   Gerard  de  Narbon. 

Laf.  He  was  excellent,  indeed,  madam  ;  tlio  king  very 
lately  spoke  of  him,  admiringly,  and  mourningly.     He  was 


648  ALT;8  well  THAT  ENDS  WELL.         [Act  1 

skilful  enough  to  have  lived  still,  if  knowledge  could  be  set 
up  against  mortality. 

Ber.    What  is  it,  my  good  lord,  the  king  languishes  of? 

Laf.    A  fistula,  my  lord. 

Ber.    I  heard  not  of  it  before. 

Laf.  I  would  it  were  not  notorious. — Was  this  gentlewo- 
man the  daughter  of  Gerard  de  Narbon  ? 

Count.  His  sole  child,  my  lord ;  and  bequeathed  to  my 
overlooking.  I  have  those  hopes  of  her  good,  that  her 
education  promises.  Her  dispositions  she  inherits,  which 
make  fair  gifts  fairer ;  for  where  an  unclean  mind  carries 
virtuous  qualities,  there  commendations  go  with  pity,  they 
are  virtues  and  traitors  too ;  in  her  tfiey  are  the  better  for 
their  simpleness ;  she  derives  her  honesty,  and  achieves  her 
goodness. 

Laf.    Your  commendations,  madam,  get  from  her  tears. 

Count.  'Tis  the  best  brine  a  maiden  can  season  her  praise 
in.  The  remembrance  of  her  father  never  approaches  her 
heart,  but  the  tyranny  of  her  sorrows  takes  all  livelihood 
from  her  cheek.  No  more  of  this,  Helena,  go  to,  no  more  ; 
lest  it  be  rather  thought  you  affect  a  sorrow,  than  to  have. 

Hel.    I  do  affect  a  sorroAV,  indeed,  but  I  have  it  too. 

Laf.  Moderate  lamentation  is  the  right  of  the  dead, 
excessive  grief  the  enemy  to  the  living. 

Count.  If  the  living  be  ercmy  to  the  grief,  the  excess 
makes  it  soon  mortal. 

Ber.    Madam,  I  desire  your  holy  wishes. 

Laf.    How  understand  we  that  ? 

Count.  Be  thou  blessed,  Bertram  !  and  succeed  thy  father 
In  manners,  as  in  shape  !     Thy  blood,  and  virtue. 
Contend  for  empire  in  thee ;  and  thy  goodness 
Share  with  thy  birthright !     Love  all,  trust  a  few. 
Do  wrong  to  none :  be  able  for  thine  enemy 
Rather  in  power  than  use ;  and  keep  thy  friend 
Under  thy  own  life's  key.     Be  checked  for  silence. 
But  never  taxed  for  speech.     What  Heaven  more  will 
That  thee  may  furnish,  and  my  prayers  pluck  down, 
Fall  on  thy  head !  Farewell.  —  My  lord, 
'Tis  an  unseasoned  courtier;  good  my  lord, 
Advise  him. 

Laf.  He  cannot  want  the  best 

That  shall   atterd  his  love. 

Count.    Heaven  bless  him  !  —  Farewell,  Bertram. 

[Lxit  Countess. 

Ber.  The  best  wishes,  that  can  be  forged  in  your  thoughts 


Act  I.]        ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.  640 

[To  Helena.]  be  servants  to  you !     Be  comfortable  to  my 
motber,  your  mistress,  and  make  mucb  of  ber. 

Laf.  Farewell,  pretty  lady.  You  must  bold  tbe  credit 
of  your  fatber.  [Exeunt  Bertram  and  Lafeu. 

Eel    0,  were  tbat  all!  —  I  tbink  not  on  my  fatber, 
And  tbese  great  tears  grace  bis  remembrance  more 
Tban  tbose  I  sbed  for  bim.     Wbat  was  he  like? 
I  bave  forgot  bim  :  my  imagination 
Carries  no  favor  in  it,  but  Bertram's. 
I  am  undone ;  tbere  is  no  living,  none. 
If  Bertram  be  away.     It  were  all  one, 
Tbat  I  sbould  love  a  brigbt  particular  star, 
And  tbink  to  wed  it,  be  is  so  above  me : 
In  bis  brigbt  radiance  and  collateral  ligbt 
Must  I  be  comforted,  not  in  bis  spbere. 
Tbe  ambition  in  my  love  tbus  plagues  itself: 
Tbe  bind,  tbat  would  be  mated  by  tbe  lion. 
Must  die  for  love.     'Twas  pretty,  tbougb  a  plague, 
To  see  him  every  hour;  to  sit  and  draw 
His  arched  brows,  bis  hawking  eye,  his  curls, 
In  our  heart's  table ;  heart,  too  capable 
Of  every  line  and  trick  of  his  sweet  favor : 
But  now  he's  gone,  and  my  idolatrous  fancy 
Must  sanctify  his  relics.     Who  comes  here? 

Enter  Parolles. 

One  tbat  goes  with  him :  I  love  him  for  his  sake ; 

And  yet  I  know  bim  a  notorious  liar. 

Think  him  a  great  way  fool,  solely  a  coward; 

Yet  these  fixed  evils  sit  so  fit  in  him, 

That  they  take  place,  when  virtue's  steely  bones 

Look  bleak  in  the  cold  wind:  withal,  full  oft  we  see 

Cold  wisdom  waiting  on  superfluous  folly. 

Par.    Save  you,  fair  queen. 

Hel.    And  you,  monarch. 

Par.   No. 

Hel.    And  no. 

Par.    Are  you  meditating  on  virginity  ? 

Hel.  Ay.  You  have  some  stain  of  soldier  in  you ;  let 
me  ask  you  a  question.  Man  is  enemy  to  virginity ;  how 
may  we  barricado  it  against  him? 

Par.    Keep  him  out. 

Hel.    But  he  assails;  and  our  virginity,  though  valiant 

in  the  defence,  yet  is  weak ;  unfold   to   us   some  warlike 

resistance. 

3e 


650  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.        [Act  I 

Pm  There  is  none ;  man,  sitting  down  before  you,  -will 
undermine  you,  and  blow  you  up. 

IIcl.  Bless  our  poor  virginity  from  underminers  and 
blowers  up  ! — Is  there  no  military  policy,  how  virgins  might 
blow  up  men  ? 

Par.  Virginity  being  blown  down,  man  will  quicklier  be 
blown  up;  marry,  in  blowing  him  down  again,  with  the 
breach  yourselves  made,  you  lose  your  city.  It  is  not  politic 
in  the  commonwealth  of  nature  to  preserve  virginity.  Loss 
of  virginity  is  rational  increase ;  and  there  was  never  virgin 
got,  till  virginity  was  first  lost.  That  you  were  made  of,  is 
metal  to  make  virgins.  Virginity,  by  being  once  lost,  may 
be  ten  times  found ;  by  being  ever  kept,  it  is  ever  lost :  'tis 
too  cold  a  companion  ;  aw^ay  with  it. 

Hel.  I  will  stand  for't  a  little,  though  therefore  I  die 
a  virgin. 

Par.  There's  little  can  be  said  in't ;  't  is  against  the  rule 
of  nature.  To  speak  on  the  part  of  virginity,  is  to  accuse 
your  mothers;  which  is  most  infallible  disobedience.  He 
that  hangs  himself  is  a  virgin  :  virginity  murders  itself ;  and 
should  be  buried  in  highways,  out  of  all  sanctified  limit,  as 
a  desperate  offendress  against  nature.  Virginity  breeds 
mites,  much  like  a  cheese;  consumes  itself  to  the  very 
paring,  and  so  dies  with  feeding  his  own  stomach.  Besides, 
virginity  is  peevish,  proud,  idle,  made  of  self-love,  which  is 
the  most  inhibited  sin  in  the  ca"on.  Keep  it  not :  you  can- 
not choose  but  lose  by't.  Out  with't :  within  ten  years  it 
will  make  itself  two,  which  is  a  goodly  increase,  and  the 
principal  itself  not  much  the  worse.     Away  with't. 

Hel.  How  might  one  do,  sir,  to  lose  it  to  her  own  liking  ? 
_  Par.  ^  Let  me  see.  Marry,  ill,  to  like  him  that  ne'er  it 
likes.  'Tis  a  commodity  will  lose  the  gloss  with  lying ;  the 
longer  kept,  the  less  worth.  Off"  with't,  while  'tis  vendible : 
answer  the  time  of  request.  Virginity,  like  an  old  courtier, 
wears  her  cap  out  of  fashion ;  richly  suited,  but  unsuitable ; 
just  like  the  brooch  and  toothpick,  which  wear  not  now. 
Your  date  is  better  in  your  pie  and  your  porridge,  than  in  your 
cheek ;  and  your  virginity,  your  old  virginity,  is  like  one 
of  our  French  withered  pears ;  it  looks  ill ;  it  eats  dryly ; 
marry,  'tis  a  withered  pear ;  it  was  formerly  better  ;  marry, 
yet,  'tis  a  withered  pear.     Will  you  any  thing  with  it  ? 

Hel.    Not  my  virginity  yet. 

There  shall  your  master  have  a  thousand  loves, 
A  mother,  and  a  mistress,  and  a  friend, 
A  phoenix,  captain,  and  an  enemy, 
A  guide,  a  goddess,  and  a  sovereign, 


Act  I.]        ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.  651 

A  counsellor,  a  traitress,  and  a  dear; 
His  humble  ambition,  proud  humility, 
His  jarring  concord,  and  his  discord  'dulcet, 
His  faith,  his  sweet  disaster;  with  a  world 
Of  pretty,  fond,  adoptious  Christendoms, 

That  blinking  Cupid  gossips.     Now  shall  he 

I  know  not  what  he  shall.  —  God  send  him  well !  — 
The  court's  a  learning-place:  —  and  he  is  one 

Par.    What  one,  i'foith  ? 

Eel    That  I  wish  well.  — 'Tis  pity • 

Par.    What's  pity? 

Eel.    That  wishing  well  had  not  a  body  in't, 
Which  might  be  felt ;  that  we,  the  poorer  born. 
Whose  baser  stars  do  shut  us  up  in  wishes, 
Might  with  effects  of  them  follow  our  friends, 
And  show  what  we  alone  must  think;  which  never 
Returns  us  thanks. 

Enter  a  Page. 

Page.    Monsieur  Parolles,  my  lord  calls  for  you. 

[^Exit  Page. 

Par.    Little  Helen,  farewell;  if  I  can  remember  tnee,  1 
.  will  think  of  thee  at  court. 

Eel.  Monsieur  Parolles,  you  were  born  under  a  charita- 
ble star. 

Par.    Under  Mars,  I. 

Eel.    I  especially  think,  under  Mars. 

Par.    Why  under  Mars  ? 

Eel.  The  wars  have  so  kept  you  under,  that  you  must 
needs  be  born  under  Mars. 

Par,    When  he  was  predominant. 

Eel.    When  he  was  retrograde,  I  think,  rather. 

Par.    Why  think  you  so  ? 

Eel.    You  go  so  much  backward,  when  you  fight. 

Par.    That's  for  advantage. 

Eel.  So  is  running  away,  when  fear  proposes  the  safety ; 
but  the  composition,  that  your  valor  and  fear  makes  in  you, 
is  a  virtue  of  a  good  wing,  aud  I  like  the  wear  well. 

Par.  I  am  so  full  of  businesses,  I  cannot  answer  thee 
acutely.  1  will  return  perfect  courtier ;  in  the  which,  my 
instruction  shall  serve  to  naturalize  thee,  so  thou  wilt  be 
capable  of  a  courtier's  counsel,  and  understand  wb:it  advice 
8hall  thrust  upon  thee;  else  thou  diest  in  thine  uiithaTikful- 
ness,  and  thine  ignorance  makes  thee  away  :  farewell.  Wlion 
thou  hast  leisure,  say  thy  prayers  ;  when  thou  hast  none, 
remember  thy  friends;  get  thee  a  good  husband,  ajnd  use 
him  as  he  uses  thee :  so  farewell.  [Exit. 


652  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.        [Act  L 

Hel.    Our  remedies  oft  in  ourselves  do  lie, 
Which  we  ascribe  to  Heaven.     The  fated  sky 
Gives  us  free  scope ;  only,  doth  backward  pull 
Our  slow  designs,  when  we  ourselves  are  dull. 
What  power  is  it  which  mounts  my  love  so  high; 
That  makes  me  see,  and  cannot  feed  mine  eye  ? 
The  mightiest  space  in  fortune  nature  brings 
To  join  like  likes,  and  kiss  like  native  things. 
Impossible  be  strange  attempts,  to  those 
That  weigh  their  pains  in  sense ;  and  do  suppose, 
What  hath  been  cannot  be.     Who  ever  strove 
To  show  her  merit,  that  did  miss  her  love  ? 
The  king's  disease  —  my  project  may  deceive  me. 
But  my  intents  are  fixed,  and  will  not  leave  me.    [Exit. 

SCENE  II.     Paris.    A  Room  iyi  the  King's  Palace.  Flou- 
rish of  Cornets. 

Enter  the  King  of  France,  with  letters ;  Lords  and  others 
attending. 

King.    The  Florentines  and  Senoys  are  by  the  ears ; 
Have  fought  with  equal  fortune,  and  continue 
A  braving  war. 

1  Lord.  So  'tis  reported,  sir. 

King.   Nay,  'tis  most  credible ;  we  here  receive  it 
A  certainty,  vouched  from  our  cousin  Austria, 
With  caution,  that  the  Florentine  will  move  us 
For  speedy  aid ;  wherein  our  dearest  friend 
Prejudicates  the  business,  and  would  seem 
To  have  us  make  denial. 

1  Lord.  His  love  and  wisdom, 
Approved  so  to  your  majesty,  may  plead 

For  amplest  credence. 

King.  He  hath  armed  our  answer, 

And  Florence  is  denied  before  he  comes ; 
Yet,  for  our  gentlemen,  that  mean  to  see 
The  Tuscan  service,  freely  have  they  leave 
To  stand  on  either  part. 

2  Lord.  It  may  well  serve 
A  nursery  to  our  gentry,  who  are  sick 
For  breathing  and  exploit. 

King.  What's  he  comes  here? 

Enter  Bertram,  Laffu,  and  Parolles. 

1  Lord.   It  is  the  count  Rousillon,  my  good  lord, 
Young  Bertram. 


Act  I.]        ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.  653 

Kirig.    Youth,  thou  bear'st  thy  father's  face; 
Frank  nature,  rather  curious  than  in  haste, 
Hath  well  composed  thee.     Thy  father's  moral  parts 
Mayst  thou  inherit  too !     Welcome  to  Paris. 

Ber.    My  thanks  and  duty  are  your  majesty's. 

King.    I  would  I  had  that  corporal  soundness  now, 
As  when  thy  father,  and  myself,  in  friendship 
First  tried  our  soldiership!     He  did  look  far 
Into  the  service  of  the  time,  and  was 
Discipled  of  the  bravest.     He  lasted  long ; 
But  on  us  both  did  haggish  age  steal  on, 
And  wore  us  out  of  act.     It  much  repairs  me 
To  talk  of  your  good  father.     In  his  youth 
He  had  the  wit,  which  I  can  well  observe 
To-day  in  our  young  lords ;  but  they  may  jest, 
Till  their  own  scorn  return  to  them  unnoted. 
Ere  they  can  hide  their  levity  in  honor. 
So  like  a  courtier,  contempt  nor  bitterness 
Were  in  his  pride  or  sharpness :  if  they  were, 
His  equal  had  awaked  them ;  and  his  honor. 
Clock  to  itself,  knew  the  true  minute  when 
Exception  bid  him  speak,  and,  at  this  time. 
His  tongue  obeyed  his  hand.     Who  were  below  him, 
He  used  as  creatures  of  another  place ; 
And  bowed  his  eminent  top  to  their  low  ranks, 
Making  them  proud  of  his  humility, 
In  their  poor  praise  he  humbled.     Such  a  man 
Might  be  a  copy  to  these  younger  times ; 
Which,  followed  well,  would  demonstrate  them  now 
But  goers  backward. 

Ber.  His  good  remembrance,  sir, 

Lies  richer  in  your  thoughts,  than  on  his  tomb; 
So  in  approof  lives  not  his  epitaph, 
As  in  your  royal  speech. 

King.    'Would  I  were  with  him!     He  would  always  say, 
(Methinks  I  hear  him  now ;  his  plausive  words 
He  scattered  not  in  ears,  but  grafted  them, 
To  grow  there,  and  to  bear,)  Let  me  not  live, — 
Thus  his  good  melancholy  oft  began. 
On  the  catastrophe  and  heel  of  pastime, 
When  it  was  out,  —  let  vie  not  live,  quoth  he. 
After  my  flame  lacks  oil,  to  he  the  snuff 
Of  younger  spirits,  ivJiose  apprehensive  senses 
All' but  new  things  disdain;  whose  judgments  are 
Mere  fathers  of  their  garments ;  whose  constancies 
Expire  before  their  fashions.  —  This  he  wished : 
8e* 


654  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.        [Act  I. 

I,  after  bim,  do  after  him  wish  too, 

Since  I  nor  wax,  nor  honey,  can  bring  home, 

I  quickly  were  dissolved  from  my  hive, 

To  give  some  laborers  room. 

2  Lord.  You  are  loved,  sir ; 

They  that  least  lend  it  you,  shall  lack  you  first. 

King.    I  fill  a  place,  I  know't.  —  How  long  is't,  count, 
Since  the  physician  at  your  father's  died? 
He  was  much  famed. 

Ber.  Some  six  months  since,  my  lord. 

King.    If  he  were  living,  I  would  try  him  yet. — 
Lend  me  an  arm  ;  —  the  rest  have  worn  me  out 
With  several  applications  :  —  nature  and  sickness 
Debate  it  at  their  leisure.     Welcome,  count ; 
My  son's  no  dearer. 

Ber.  Thank  your  majesty. 

[Exeunt.     Flourish. 

SCENE  III.     Rousillon.     A  Roam  in  the  Countess's 
Palace. 

Enter  Countess,  Steward,  and  Clown. 

Count.  I  will  now  hear ;  what  say  you  of  this  gentle- 
woman ? 

Stew.  Madam,  the  care  I  have  had  to  even  your  content, 
I  wish  might  be  found  in  the  calendar  of  my  past  endeavors ; 
for  then  we  wound  our  modesty,  and  make  foul  the  clearness 
of  our  deservings,  when  of  ourselves  we  publish  them. 

Count.  What  does  this  knave  here?  Get  you  gone, 
sirrah.  The  complaints  I  have  heard  of  you,  I  do  not  all 
believe ;  'tis  my  slowness,  that  I  do  not ;  for,  I  know,  you 
lack  not  folly  to  commit  them,  and  have  ability  enough  to 
make  such  knaveries  yours. 

Clo.  'Tis  not  unknown  to  you,  madam,  I  am  a  poor  fellow. 

Count.    Well,  sir. 

Clo.  No,  madam,  'tis  not  so  well,  that  I  am  poor ;  though 
many  of  the  rich  are  damned ;  but,  if  I  may  have  your 
ladyship's  good  will  to  go  to  the  world,  Isabel  the  woman 
and  I  will  do  as  we  may. 

Count.    Wilt  thou  needs  be  a  beggar? 

Clo.    I  do  beg  your  good  will  in  this  case. 

Count.    In  what  case  ? 

Clo.  In  Isabel's  case,  and  mine  own.  Service  is  no 
heritage ;  and,  I  think,  I  shall  never  have  the  blessing  of 
God,  till  I  have  issue  of  my  body ;  for,  they  say,  beams 
are  blessings. 


Act  I.]        ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.  6515 

Count.    Tell  me  tliy  reason  why  thou  wilt  marrv.. 

Clo.  My  poor  body,  madam,  requires  it.  I  am  drn'en  ou 
by  the  flesh ;  and  he  must  needs  go  that  the  devil  drives. 

Count.    Is  this  all  your  worship's  reason  ? 

Clo.  Faith,  madam,  I  have  other  holy  reasons  such  as 
they  are. 

Count.    May  the  world  know  them? 

Clo.  I  have  been,  madam,  a  wicked  creature,  as  you  and 
all  flesh  and  blood  are ;  and,  indeed,  I  do  marry,  that  I 
may  repent. 

Count.    Thy  marriage,  sooner  than  thy  wickedness. 

Clo.  I  am  out  of  friends,  madam  ;  and  I  hope  to  have 
friends  for  my  wife's  sake. 

Count.    Such  friends  are  thine  enemies,  knave. 

Clo.  You  are  shallow,  madam  :  e'en  great  friends ;  for 
the  knaves  come  to  do  that  for  me,  which  I  am  a  weary  of. 
He  that  ears  my  land,  spares  my  team,  and  gives  me  leave 
to  inn  the  crop :  if  I  be  his  cuckold,  he's  my  drudge.  He 
that  comforts  my  wife,  is  the  cherisher  of  ray  flesh  and 
blood ;  he  that  cherishes  my  flesh  and  blood,  loves  my  flesh 
and  blood ;  he  that  loves  my  flesh  and  blood,  is  my  friend : 
ergo,  he  that  kisses  my  wife,  is  my  friend.  If  men  could 
be  contented  to  be  what  they  are,  there  were  no  fear  in 
marriage ;  for  young  Charbon  the  puritan,  and  old  Poysara 
the  papist,  howsoever  their  hearts  are  severed  in  religion, 
their  heads  are  both  one ;  they  may  joll  horns  together, 
like  any  deer  i'the  herd. 

Count.  Wilt  thou  ever  be  a  foul-mouthed  and  calumnioua 
knave  ? 

Clo.  A  prophet  I,  madam;  and  I  speak  the  truth  the 
next  way : 

For  I  the  ballad  tvill  repeat, 

Wliich  men  full  true  shall  find  ; 

Your  marriage  comes  by  destiny, 
Your  cuckoo  sings  by  kind. 

Count.    Get  you  gone,  sir ;  I'll  talk  with  you  more  anon. 
Stew.   May  it  please  you,  madam,  that  he  bid  Helen  crme 
to  you ;  of  her  I  am  to  speak. 

Count.  Sirrah,  tell  my  gentlewoman  I  would  speak  with 
her  ;  Helen  I  mean. 

Clo.    Was  this  fair  face  the  cause,  quoth  she,  [Singing. 
Why  the  Grecians  sacked  Troy? 
Fond  done,  done  fond, 

Was  this  king  Priam  s  joy  f 


656  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.        [Act  1 

With  that  she  sighed  as  she  stood, 
With  that  she  sighed  as  she  stood. 

And  gave  this  sentence  the7i; 
Among  nine  had  if  one  he  good, 
Among  nine  had  if  one  he  good, 

There's  yet  one  gcod  ifi  ten. 

Oount.  What,  one  good  in  ten  ?  You  corrupt  the  song, 
sirrah. 

Qlo.  One  good  woman  in  ten,  madam ;  which  is  a  purify- 
ing o'the  song.  'Wouhl  God  woukl  serve  the  world  so  all 
the  year !  We'd  find  no  fault  with  the  tithe-woman,  if  I 
were  the  parson.  One  in  ten,  quoth  a' !  an  we  might  have 
a  good  woman  born,  but  one  every  blazing  star,  or  at  an 
earthquake,  'twould  mend  the  lottery  well ;  a  man  may  draw 
his  heart  out,  ere  he  pluck  one. 

Count.  You'll  be  gone,  sir  knave,  and  do  as  I  command 
you? 

Clo.  That  man  should  be  at  woman's  command,  and  yet 
no  hurt  done !  —  Though  honesty  be  no  puritan,  yet  it  will 
do  no  hurt ;  it  will  wear  the  surplice  of  humility  over  the 
black  gown  of  a  big  heart.  —  I  am  going,  forsooth  :  the 
business  is  for  Helen  to  come  hither.  [Exit  Clown. 

Count.    Well,  now. 

Stew.  I  know,  madam,  you  love  your  gentlewoman  entirely 

Count.  Faith,  I  do :  her  father  bequeathed  her  to  me ; 
and  she  herself,  without  other  advantage,  may  lawfully  make 
title  to  as  much  love  as  she  finds.  There  is  more  owing 
her,  than  is  paid ;  and  more  shall  be  paid  her,  than  she'll 
demand. 

Steiv.  Madam,  I  was  very  late  more  near  her  than,  1 
think,  she  wished  me.  Alone  she  was,  and  did  communicate 
to  herself,  her  own  words  to  her  own  ears ;  she  thought,  I 
dare  vow  for  her,  they  touched  not  any  stranger  sense.  Her 
matter  was,  she  loved  your  son.  Fortune,  she  said,  was  no 
goddess,  that  had  put  such  diiference_  betwixt  their  two 
estates ;  Love,  no  god,  that  would  not  extend  his  might, 
only  where  qualities  were  level ;  Diana,  no  queen  of  vii-gins, 
that  would  suffer  her  poor  knight  to  be  surprised,  without 
rescue,  in  the  first  assault,  or  ransom  afterward.  This  she 
delivered  in  the  most  bitter  touch  of  sorrow  that  e'er  I 
heard  virgin  exclaim  in ;  whi^ch  I  held  my  duty  speedily  to 
acquaint  you  withal ;  sithence,  in  the  loss  that  may  happen, 
it  concerns  you  something  to  know  it. 

Count.  You  have  discharged  this  honestly ;  keep  it  to 
yourself.     Many  likelihoods   informed  me  of   this    before, 


Act  T.]         ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.  657 

which  hung  so  tottering  in  the  balance,  that  I  couhl  neither 
believe,  nor  misdoubt.  Pray  you,  leave  me:  stall  this  in 
your  bosom,  and  I  thank  you  for  your  honest  care.  I  will 
speak  "with  you  further  anon.  \^Exit  Steward. 

Enter  Helena. 

Even  so  it  was  with  me,  when  I  was  young. 

If  we,  are  nature's,  these  are  ours ;  this  thorn 
Doth  to  our  rose  of  youth  rightly  belong ; 

Our  blood  to  us,  this  to  our  blood  is  born; 
It  is  the  show  and  seal  of  nature's  truth, 
Where  love's  strong  passion  is  impressed  in  youth. 
By  our  remembrances  of  days  foregone, 
Such  were  our  faults ;  —  or  then  we  thought   them  none. 
Her  eye  is  sick  on't ;  I  observe  her  now. 

Hel.    What  is  your  pleasure,  madam? 

Count.  You  know,  Helen, 

I  am  a  mother  to  you. 

Hel.    Mine  honorable  mistress. 

Count.  Nay,  a  mother; 

Why  not  a  mother?     When  I  said,  a  mother, 
Methought  you  saw  a  serpent.     What's  in  mother, 
That  you  start  at  it?     I  say  I  am  your  mother; 
And  put  you  in  the  catalogue  of  those 
That  were  enwombed  mine.     'Tis  often  seen. 
Adoption  strives  with  nature;  and  choice  breeds 
A  native  slip  to  us  from  foreign  seeds. 
You  ne'er  oppressed  me  with  a  mother's  groan, 
Yet  I  express  to  you  a  mother's  care :  — 
God's  mercy,  maiden !  does  it  curd  thy  blood. 
To  say,  I  am  thy  mother?     What's  the  matter, 
That  this  distempered  messenger  of  wet, 
The  many-colored  Iris,  rounds  thine  eye? 
Why  ?  — That  you  are,  my  daughter  ? 

J£el,  "  That  I  am  not. 

Count.    I  say,  I  am  your  mother. 

^g^.  Pardon,  madam. 

The  count  Rousillon  cannot  be  my  brother: 
I  am  from  humble,  he  from  honored  name; 
No  note  upon  my  parents,  his  all  noble. 
My  master,  my  dear  lord  he  is ;  and  I 
His  servant  live  and  will  his  vassal  die. 
He  must  not  be  my  brother. 

Count.  Nor  I  your  mother? 

Hel.    You  are  my  mother,  madam.     'Would  you  were 
(So  that  my  lord,  your  son,  were  not  my  brother^ 

Vol.  I.— 42 


65S  ALL'S  \YELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.        [Act  I 

Indeed  my  mother! — Or  were  you  both  our  mothers, 
I  care  no  more  for,  than  I  do  for  Heaven, 
So  I  were  not  his  sister.     Can't  no  other, 
But,  I  your  daughter,  he  must  be  my  brother? 

Count.    Yes,  Helen,  you  might  be  my  daughter-in-law ; 
God  shield,  you  mean  it  not !  daughter  and  mother 
So  strive  upon  your  pulse.     What,  pale  again  ? 
My  fear  hath  catched  your  fondness :  now  I  see 
The  mystery  of  your  loneliness,  and  find 
Your  salt  tears'  head.     Now  to  all  sense  'tis  gross. 
You  love  my  son ;  invention  is  ashamed, 
Against  the  proclamation  of  thy  passion. 
To  say,  thou  dost  not.     Therefore,  tell  me  true; 
But  tell  me  then,  'tis  so :  —  for,  look,  thy  cheeks 
Confess  it,  one  to  the  other ;  and  thine  eyes 
See  it  so  grossly  shown  in  thy  behaviors, 
That  in  their  kind  they  speak  it;  only  sin 
And  hellish  obstinacy  tie  thy  tongue, 
That  truth  should  be  suspected.     Speak,  is't  so  ? 
If  it  be  so,  you  have  wound  a  goodly  clew ; 
If  it  be  not,  forswear't :  howe'er,  I  charge  thee, 
As  Heaven  shall  work  in  me  for  thine  avail, 
To  tell  me  truly. 

Hel.  Good  madam,  pardon  me  ! 

Count.    Do  you  love  my  son  ? 

Sel.  iTour  pardon,  noble  mistress ! 

Count.    Love  you  my  son  ? 

Hel.  Do  not  you  love  him,  madam  ? 

Count.    Go  not  .about;  my  love  hath  in't  a  bond, 
Whereof  the  world  takes  note.     Come,  come,  disclose 
The  state  of  your  affection ;  for  your  passions 
Have  to  the  full  appeached. 

Hel.  Then,  I  confess, 

Here  on  my  knee,  before  high  Heaven  and  you, 
That  before  you,  and  next  unto  high  Heaven, 
I  love  your  son. — 

My  friends  were  poor,  but  honest :  so's  my  love. 
Be  not  offended ;  for  it  hurts  not  him. 
That  he  is  loved  of  me.     I  follow  him  not 
By  any  token  of  presumptuous  suit ; 
Nor  would  I  have  him,  till  I  do  deserve  him ; 
Yet  never  know  how  that  desert  should  be. 
I  know,   I  love  in  vain,  strive  against  hope ; 
Yet,  in  this  captious  and  intenible  sieve, 
I  still  pour  in  the  waters  of  my  love, 
And  lack  not  to  lose  still ;  thus,  Indian-like, 


Act  I  ]        ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.  659 

Religious  in  mine  error,  I  adore 

The  sun,  that  looks  upon  his  worshipper. 

But  knows  of  him  no  more.     My  dearest  madam. 

Let  not  your  hate  encounter  with  my  love, 

For  loving  where  you  do ;  but,  if  yourself, 

Whose  aged  honor  cites  a  virtuous  youth. 

Did  ever,  in  so  true  a  flame  of  liking. 

Wish  chastely,  and  love  dearly,  that  your  Dian 

Was  both  herself  and  love;  —  0  then  give  pity 

To  her,  whose  state  is  such,  that  cannot  choose 

But  lend  and  give,  where  she  is  sure  to  lose ; 

That  seeks  not  to  find  that  her  search  implies, 

But,  riddle-like,  lives  sweetly  where  she  dies. 

Count.    Had  you  not  lately  an  intent  —  speak  truly  — 
To  go  to  Paris? 

Hel.  Madam,  I  had. 

Count.  Wherefore  ?     Tell  true. 

Hel.    I  will  tell  truth;  by  grace  itself,  I  swear. 
You  know,  my  father  left  me  some  prescriptions 
Of  rare  and  proved  effects,  such  as  his  reading, 
And  manifest  experience,  had  collected 
For  general  sovereignty ;  and  that  he  willed  me 
In  heedfullest  reservation  to  bestow  them, 
As  notes,  whose  faculties  inclusive  were, 
More  than  they  were  in  note.     Amongst  the  rest, 
There  is  a  remedy  approved,  set  down. 
To  cure  the  desperate  languishes,  whereof 
The  king  is  rendered  lost. 

Count.  This  was  your  motive 

For  Paris,  was  it?  speak. 

Eel.    My  lord  your  son  made  me  to  think  of  this; 
Else  Paris,  and  the  medicine,  and  the  king. 
Had,  from  the  conversation  of  my  thoughts, 
Haply,  been  absent  then. 

Count.  But  think  you,  Helen, 

If  you  should  tender  your  supposed  aid, 
He  would  receive  it?     He  and  his  physicians 
Are  of  a  mind;  he,  that  they  cannot  help  him;  _ 
They,  that  they  cannot  help.     How  shall  they  credit 
A  poor  unlearned  virgin,  when  the  schools, 
Embowelled  of  their  doctrine,  have  left  off 
The  danger  to  itself? 

Hel.  There's  something  hints. 

More  than  my  father's  skill,  which  was  the  greatest 
Of  his  profession,  that  his  good  receipt 
Shall,  for  my  legacy,  be  sanctified 


660  ALL'S  WELL  TIIxVT  ENDS  WELL.      [Act  IL 

By  the  luckiest  stars  in  heaven ;  and  woukl  your  honor 
But  give  me  leave  to  try  success,  I'd  venture 
The  well-lost  life  of  mine  on  his  grace's  cure, 
By  such  a  day  and  hour. 

Count.  Dost  thou  believe't? 

Hel.    Ay,  madam,  knowingly. 

Count.    Why,  Helen,  thou  shalt  have  my  leave  and  love, 
Means,  and  attendants,  and  my  loving  greetings 
To  those  of  mine  in  court.     I'll  stay  at  home, 
And  pray  God's  blessing  into  thy  attempt. 
Be  gone  to-morrow;  and  be  sure  of  this, 
What  I  can  help  thee  to,  thou  shalt  not  miss.  [Exeunt. 


ACT   II. 

SCENE  I.     Paris.     A  Boom  in  the  King's  Palace. 
Flourish. 

Enter  King,  with  young  Lords  taking  leave  for  the  Floren- 
tine war ;  Bertram,  Parolles,  and  Attendants. 

King.    Farewell,  young  lord,  these  warlike  principles 
Do  not  throw  from  you  ;  —  and  you,  my  lord,  farewell. — 
Share  the  advice  betwixt  you ;  if  both  gain  all, 
The  gift  doth  stretch  itself  as  'tis  received, 
And  is  enough  for  both. 

1  Lord.  It  is  our  hope,  sir, 
After  well-entered  soldiers,  to  return 

And  find  your  grace  in  health. 

King.    No,  no,  it  cannot  be  ;  and  yet  my  heart 
Will  not  confess  he  owes  the  malady 
That  doth  my  life  besiege.     Farewell,  young  lords ; 
Whether  I  live  or  die,  be  you  the  sons 
Of  worthy  Frenchmen.     Let  higher  Italy 
(Those  'bated,  that  inherit  but  the  fall 
Of  the  last  monarchy)  see,  that  you  come 
Not  to  woo  honor,  but  to  wed  it ;  when 
The  bravest  v^uestant  shrinks,  find  what  you  seek. 
That  fame  may  cry  you  loud.     I  say,  farewell. 

2  Lord.    Health,  at  your  bidding,  serve  your  majesty  ! 
King.    Those  girls  of  Italy,  take  heed  of  them ; 

They  say,  our  French  lack  language  to  deny, 


Acr  II.]      ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.  661 

If  they  demand.     Beware  of  being  captives, 
Before  you  serve. 

Both.  Our  hearts  receive  your  warnings. 

King.    Farewell. —  Come  hither  to  me. 

\_Tlie  King  retires  to  a  couch. 

1  Lord.    0  my  sweet  lord,  that  you  will  stay  behind  us  ! 
Par.    'Tis  not  his  fault ;  the  spark 

2  Lord.  0,  'tis  brave  wars ! 
Par.    Most  admirable :  I  have  seen  those  wars. 

Ber.    I  am  commanded  here,  and  kept  a  coil,  with 
Too  young,  and  the  next  year,  and  'tis  too  early. 

Par.    An  thy  mind  stand  to  it,  boy,  steal  away  bravely. 

Ber.    I  shall  stay  here  the  forehorse  to  a  smock, 
Creaking  my  shoes  on  the  plain  masonry. 
Till  honor  be  bought  up,  and  no  sword  worn, 
But  one  to  dance  with !     By  Heaven,  I'll  steal  away. 

1  Lord.    There's   honor  in  the  theft. 

Par.  Commit  it,  count. 

2  Lord.    I  am  your  accessary ;   and  so  farewell. 
Ber.    I  grow  to  you,  and  our  parting  is  a  tortured  body. 

1  Lord.    Farewell,  captain. 

2  Lord.    Sweet  monsieur  Parolles  ! 

Par.  Noble  heroes,  my  sword  and  yours  are  kin.  Good 
sparks  and  lustrous,  a  word,  good  metals. — You  shall  find 
in  the  regiment  of  the  Spinii,  one  captain  Spurio,  with  his 
cicatrice,  an  emblem  of  war,  here  on  his  sinister  cheek; 
it  was  this  very  sword  entrenched  it.  Say  to  him,  I  live ; 
and  observe  his  reports  for  me. 

2  Lord.    We  shall,  noble  captain. 

Par.  Mars  dote  on  you  for  his  novices!  [Exeunt 
Lords.]     What  will  you  do  ? 

Ber.    Stay;  the  king [Seeing  him  rise. 

Par.  Use  a  more  spacious  ceremony  to  the  noble  lords  : 
you  have  restrained  yourself  within  the  list  of  too  cold  an 
adieu ;  be  more  expressive  to  them  ;  for  they  wear  them- 
selves in  the  cap  of  the  time,  there  do  muster  true  gait; 
eat,  speak,  and  move  under  the  influence  of  the  mo.st  re- 
ceived star ;  and  though  the  devil  lead  the  measure,  such 
are  to  be  followed.  After  them,  and  take  a  more  dilated 
farewell. 

Ber.    And  I  will  do  so. 

Par.  Worthy  fellows;  and  like  to  prove  most  sinewy 
sword-men.  [Exeunt  Bertram  and  Parolles. 

Enter  Lafeu. 
Laf.    Pardon,  my  lord,  [Kneeling.']  for  me  and  for  my 

tidings. 

^  3f 


662  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.      [Act  T1 

King.    I'll  fee  thee  to  stand  up. 

Laf.  Then  hei  e's  a  man 

Stands,  that  has  brought  his  pardon.     I  would  you 
Had  kneeled,  my  lord,  to  ask  me  mercy ;  and 
That,  at  my  bidding,  you  could  so   stand  up. 

King.    I  would  I  had ;  so  I  had  broke  thy  pate, 
And  asked  thee  mercy  for't. 

Laf.  Goodfaith  across : 

But,  my  good  lord,   'tis  thus :  Will  you  be  cured 
Of  your  infirmity  ? 

King.  No. 

Laf.  0,  will  you   eat 

No  grapes,  my  royal  fox?     Yes,  but  you  will, 
My  noble  grapes,  an  if  my  royal  fox 
Could  reach  them.     I  have  seen  a  medicine, 
That's  able  to  breathe  life  into  a  stone ; 
Quicken  a  rock,  and  make  you  dance  canary, 
With  spritely  fire  and  motion ;  whose  simple  touch 
Is  powerful  to  araise  king  Pepin,  nay, 
To  give  great  Charlemain  a  pen  in  his  hand. 
And  write  to  her  a  love-line. 

King.  What  her  is  this? 

Laf.    Why,  doctor  she.     My  lord,  there's   one  arrived, 
If  you  will  see  her,  —  now,  by  my  faith  and  honor, 
If  seriously  I  may  convey  Tny  thoughts 
In  this  my  light  deliverance,  I  haVe  spoke 
With  one,  that,  in  her  sex,  her  years,  profession. 
Wisdom  and  constancy,  hath  amazed  me  more 
Than  I  dare  blame  my  weakness.     Will  you  see  her, 
(For  that  is  her  demand,)  and  know  her  business  ? 
That  done,  laugh  well  at  me. 

King.  Now,  good  Lafeu, 

Bring  in  the  admiration :  that  we  with  thee 
May  spend  our  wonder  too,  or  take  off  thine, 
By  wondering  how  thou  took'st  it. 

Laf.  Nay,  I'll  fit  you. 

And  not  be  all  day  neither.  [Exit  Lafeu 

King.    Thus  he  his  special  nothing  ever  prologues. 

Re-enter  Lafeu,  with  Helena. 

Laf.    Nay,  come  your  ways. 

King.  This  haste  hath  wings  indeed 

Laf.    Nay,  come  your  ways. 
This  is  his  majesty ;  say  your  mind  to  him : 
A  traitor  you  do  look  like;  but  such  traitors 


Act  II.]       ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.  GG3 

His  majesty  seldom  fears.     I  am  Cressid's  uncle, 

That  dare  leave  two  together;  fare  you  well.  \_Exk 

King.    Now,  fair  one,  does  your  business  follow  us? 

Rel.    Ay,  my  good  lord.     Gerard  de  Narbon  was 
My  father;  in  what  he  did  profess,  well  found. 

King.    I  knew  him. 

Hel.    The  rather  will  I  spare  my  praises  towards  him ; 
Knowing  him,  is  enough.     On  his  bed  of  death 
Many  receipts  he  gave  me  ;  chiefly  one. 
Which,  as  the  dearest  issue  of  his  practice, 
And  of  his  old  experience  the  only  darling, 
He  bade  me  store  up,  as  a  triple  eye. 
Safer  than  mine  own  two,  more  dear.     I  have  so : 
And,  hearing  your  high  majesty  is  touched 
With  that  malignant  cause  wherein  the  honor 
Of  my  dear  father's  gift  stands  chief  in  power, 
I  come  to  tender  it,  and  my  appliance, 
With  all  bound  humbleness. 

King.  We  thank  you,  maiden; 

But  may  not  be  so  credulous  of  cure, — 
When  our  most  learned  doctors  leave  us ;  and 
The  congregated  college  have  concluded 
That  laboring  art  can  never  ransom  nature 
From  her  inaidable  estate,  —  I  say  we  must  not 
So  stain  our  judgment,  or  corrupt  our  hope, 
To  prostitute  our  past-cure  malady 
To  empirics ;  or  to  dissever  so 
Our  great  self  and  our  credit,  to  esteem 
A  senseless  help,  w^hen  help  past  sense  we  deem. 

Hel.    i\Iy  duty  then  shall  pay  me  for  my  pams. 
I  will  no  more  enforce  mine  office  on  you ; 
Humbly  entreating  from  your  royal  thoughts 
A  modest  one  to  bear  me  back  again. 

King.    I  cannot  give  thee  less,  to  be  called  grateful 
Thou  thought'st  to  help  me;  and  such  thanks  I  give, 
As  one  near  death  to  those  that  wish  him  live ; 
But,  what  at  full  I  know,  thou  know'st  no  part; 
I  knowing  all  my  peril,  thou  no  art. 

Hel.    What  I  can  do,  can  do  no  hurt  to  try, 
Since  you  set  up  your  rest  'gainst  remedy. 
He  that  of  greatest  works  is  finisher. 
Oft  does  them  by  the  weakest  minister; 
So  holy  writ  in  babes  hath  judgment  shoAvn, 
When  judges  have  been  babes.     Great  iloods  iiavc  fltwD 
From  simple  sources  ;  and  great  seas  have  dried, 
When  miracles  have  by  the  greatest  been  denied. — 


664  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENPS  WELL.      [Act  1L 

Oft  expcctatior.  fails,  and  most  oft  there 
Where  most  it  promises  ;  and  oft  it  hits, 
Where  hope  is  coldest,  and  despair  most  sits. 

King.    I  must  not  hear  thee ;  fare  thee  well,  kind  maid ; 
Thy  pains,  not  used,  must  hy  thyself  be  paid. 
Proffers,  not  took,  reap  thanks  for  their  reward. 

Hel.    Inspired  merit  so  hy  breath  is  barred. 
It  is  not  so  with  Him  that  all  things  knows, 
As  'tis  with  us  that  square  our  guess  by  shows ; 
But  most  it  is  presumption  in  us,  when 
The  help  of  Heaven  we  count  the  act  of  men. 
Dear  sir,  to  my  endeavors  give  consent ; 
Of  Heaven,  not  me,  make  an  experiment. 
I  am  not  an  impostor,  that  proclaim 
Myself  against  the  level  of  mine  aim ; 
But  know  I  think,  and  think  I  know  most  sure, 
My  art  is  not  past  power,  nor  you  past  cure. 

King.    Art  thou  so  confident  ?     Within  what  space 
Hop'st  thou  my  cure  ? 

Hel.  The  greatest  grace  lending  grace, 

Ere  twice  the  horses  of  the  sun  shall  bring 
Their  fiery  torcher  his  diurnal  ring ; 
Ere  twice  in  murk  and  occidental  damp 
Moist  Hesperus  hath  quenched  his  sleepy  lamp ; 
Or  four-and-twenty  times  the  ];^ilot's  glass 
Hath  told  the  thievish  minutes  how  they  pass ; 
What  is  infirm  from  your  sound  parts  shall  fly, 
Health  shall  live  free,  and  sickness  freely  die. 

King.    Upon  thy  certainty  and  confidence, 
What  dar'st  thou  venture  ? 

Hel.  Tax  of  impudence, — 

A  strumpet's  boldness,  a  divulged  shame, — 
Traduced  by  odious  ballads ;  my  maiden's  name 
Seared  otherwise ;  no  worst  of  worst  extended, 
With  vilest  torture  let  my  life  be  ended. 

King.    Methinks  in  thee  some  blessed  spirit  doth  speak; 
His  powerful  sound  within  an  organ  weak ; 
And  what  impossibility  would  slay 
]n  common  sense,  sense  saves  another  way. 
Thy  life  is  dear ;  for  all,  that  life  can  rate 
Worth  name  of  life,  in  thee  hath  estimate ; 
Youth,  beauty,  wisdom,   courage,  virtue,  all 
That  happiness  and  prime  can  happy  call. 
Thou  this  to  hazard,   needs  must  intimate 
Skill  infinite,  or  monstrous  desperate. 


Act  II.]       ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.  665 

Sweet  practiaer,  thy  physic  I  will  try ; 
That  ministers  thine  own  death,  if  I  die. 

Hel.    If  I  break  time,  or  flinch  in  property 
Of  what  T  spoke,  unpitied  let  me  die; 
And  well  deserved.     Not  helping,  death's  my  fee ; 
But,  if  I  help,  what  do  you  promise  me? 

King.    Make  thy  demand. 

Hel.  But  will  you  make  it  even  ? 

King.    Ay,  by  my  sceptre,  and  my  hopes  of  help. 

Hel.    Then  shalt  thou  give  me,  with  thy  kingly  hand, 
What  husband  in  thy  power  I  will  command. 
Exempted  be  from  me  the  aiTOgance 
To  choose  from  forth  the  royal  blood  of  France; 
My  low  and  humble  name  to  propagate 
With  any  branch  or  impage  of  thy  state ; 
But  such  a  one,  thy  vassal,  whom  I  know 
Is  free  for  me  to  ask,  thee  to  bestow. 

King.    Here  is  my  hand;  the  premises  observed, 
Thy  will  by  my  performance  shall  be  served ; 
So  make  the  choice  of  thy  own  time ;  for  I, 
Thy  resolved  patient,  on  thee  still  rely. 
More  should  I  question  thee,  and  more  I  must; 
Though  more  to  know,  could  not  be  more  to  trust; 
From  whence  thou  cam'st,  how  tended  on,  —  but  rest 
Unquestioned  welcome,  and  undoubted  blessed. — 
Give  me  some  help  here,  ho! — If  thou  proceed 
As  high  as  word,  my  deed  shall  match  thy  deed. 

[Flourish.     Exeunt. 

SCENE    II.      Rousillon.      A   Boom    in    the   Countess's 

Palace. 

Enter  Countess  and  Clown. 

Count.  Come  on,  sir ;  I  shall  now  put  you  to  the  height 
of  youv  breeding. 

do.  I  will  show  myself  highly  fed  and  lowly  taught,  i 
know  my  business  is  but  to  the  court. 

Count.  To  the  court !  why,  what  place  make  you  special, 
when  you  put  off  that  with  such  contempt  ?    But  to  the  court . 

Glo.  Truly,  madam,  if  God  have  lent  a  man  any  manners, 
he  may  easily  put  it  off  at  court.  He  that  cannot  make  a 
leg,  put  oft-'s  cap,  kiss  his  hand,  and  say  nothing,  has  nei- 
ther leg,  hands,  lip,  nor  cap  ;  an<l,  indeed,  such  a  icilow,  to 
say  precisely,  were  not  for  the  court :  but,  for  mc,  i  have 
an  answer  will  serve  all  men. 

8f* 


660  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.       [Act  IL 

Court.  Marry,  that's  a  bountiful  answer,  that  fits  all 
questions. 

Clo.  It  is  like  a  barber's  chair,  that  fits  all  buttocks ;  the 
pin-buttock,  the  quatcli-buttock,  the  brawn-buttock,  or  any 
buttock. 

Count.    Will  your  answer  serve  fit  to  all  questions? 

Clo.  As  fit  as  ten  groats  is  for  the  hand  of  an  attorney, 
as  your  French  crown  for  your  taffeta  punk,  as  Tib's  rush 
for  Tom's  fore-finger,  as  a  pancake  for  Shrove-Tuesday,  a 
morris  for  May-day,  as  the  nail  to  his  hole,  the  cuckold  to 
his  horn,  as  a  scolding  quean  to  a  wrangling  knave,  as  the 
nun's  lip  to  the  friar's  mouth ;  nay,  as  the  pudding  to  his 
skin. 

Count.  Have  you,  I  say,  an  answer  of  such  fitness  for  all 
questions  ? 

Clo.  From  below  your  duke,  to  beneath  your  constable, 
it  will  fit  any  question. 

Count.  It  must  be  an  answer  of  most  monstrous  size,  that 
must  fit  all  demands. 

Clo.  But  a  trifle  neither,  in  good  faith,  if  the  learned 
should  speak  truth  of  it :  here  it  is,  and  all  that  belongs  to't. 
Ask  me  if  I  am  a  courtier  ;  it  shall  do  you  no  harm  to  learn. 

Count.  To  be  young  again,  if  we  could.  I  will  be  a  fool 
in  question,  hoping  to  be  the  wiser  by  your  answer.  I  pray 
you,  sir,  are  you  a  courtier  ? 

Clo.    0  Lord,  sir. There's  a  simple  putting  off;  — 

more,  more,  a  hundred  of  them. 

Count.  Sir,  I  am  a  poor  friend  of  yours,  that  loves  you. 

Clo.   0  Lord,  sir.  —  Thick,  thick,  spare  not  me. 

Count.  I  think,  sir,  you  can  eat  none  of  this  homely  meat. 

Clo.   0  Lord,  sir.  —  Nay,  put  me  to't,  I  warrant  you. 

Count.    You  were  lately  whipped,  sir,  as  I  think. 

Clo.    0  Lord,  sir. —  Spare  not  me. 

Count.  Do  you  cry,  0  Lord.,  sir,  at  your  whipping,  and 
spare  not  me  f  Indeed,  your  0  Lord,  sir,  is  very  sequent 
to  your  whipping ;  you  would  answer  very  well  to  a  whip- 
ping, if  you  were  but  bound  to't. 

Clo.  I  ne'er  had  worse  luck  in  my  life,  in  my  —  0  lord, 
sir.     I  see,  things  may  serve  long,  but  not  serve  ever. 

Count.  I  play  the  noble  housewife  with  the  time,  to  enter- 
tain it  so  merrily  with  a  fool. 

Clo.    0  Lord,  sir. — Why  there't  serves  well  again. 

Count.    An  end,  sir,  to  your  business.     Give  Helen  this, 
And  urge  her  to  a  present  answer  back. 
Commend  me  to  my  kinsmen,  and  my  son. 
This  is  not  much. 


Act  II.]      ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.  667 

Clo.    Not  much  commendation  to  them. 
Count.    Not  much  employment  for  you.    You  understand 
me? 

Clo.    Most  fruitfully;  I  am  there  before  my  legs. 
Count.    Haste  you  again.  [_Exeunt  severally- 

SCENE  III.     Paris.     A  Room  in  the  King's  Palace. 
Enter  Bertram,  Lafeu,  and  Parolles. 

Laf.  They  say,  miracles  are  past ;  and  we  have  our  phi- 
losophical persons,  to  make  modern  and  familiar  things  super- 
natural and  causeless.  Hence  it  i.s,  that  we  make  trifles  of 
terrors  ;  ensconcing  ourselves  into  seeming  knowledge,  when 
we  should  submit  ourselves  to  an  unknoAvn  fear. 

Par.  Why,  'tis  the  rarest  argument  of  wonder,  that  hath 
shot  out  in  our  latter  times. 

Ber.    And  so  'tis. 

Laf.    To  be  relinquished  of  the  artists, 

Par.    So  I  say ;  both  of  Galen  and  Paracelsus. 

Laf.    Of  all  the  learned  and  authentic  fellows, — 

Par.    Right ;  so  I  say. 

Laf.    That  gave  him  out  incurable, — 

Par.    Why,  there  'tis ;  so  say  I  too. 

Laf.    Not  to  be  helped, — 

Par.    Right :  as  'twere,  a  man  assured  of  an — 

Laf.    Uncertain  life,  and  sure  death. 

Par.    Just ;  you  say  well ;  so  would  I  have  said. 

Laf.    I  may  truly  say,  it  is  a  novelty  to  the  world. 

Par.  It  is,  indeed :  if  you  will  have  it  in  showing,  you 
shall  read  it  in What  do  you  call  there  ? — 

Laf.    A  showing  of  a  heavenly  effect  in  an  earthly  actor. 

Par.    That's  it  I  would  have  said ;  the  very  same. 

Laf.  Why,  your  dolphin  is  not  lustier :  'fore  me,  I  speak 
in  respect 

Par.  Nay,  'tis  strange,  'tis  very  strange ;  that  is  the  brief 
and  the  tedious  of  it ;  and  he  is  of  a  most  faciuorous  spirit, 
that  will  not  acknowledge  it  to  be  the 

Laf.    Very  hand  of  Heaven. 

Par.    Ay,  so  I  say. 

Laf    In  a  most  weak 

Pa'i .  And  debile  minister,  great  power,  great  transcend- 
ence ;  which  should,  indeed,  give  us  a  further  use  to  be  made, 
than  alone  the  recovery  of  the  king,  as  to  be 

Laf.    Generally  thankful. 


668  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.       [Act  11 

Unter  King,  Helena,  and  Attendants. 

Pay:  I  would  have  said  it ;  you  say  well.  Here  comes 
the  king. 

Laf.  Lustick,  as  the  Dutchman  says.  I'll  like  a  maid 
the  better,  whilst  I  have  a  tooth  in  my  head.  Why,  he's 
able  to  lead  her  a  coranto. 

Par.   3Iort  du  Vinaigre !     Is  not  this  Helen  ? 

Laf.    'Fore  God,  I  think  so. 

King.    Go,  call  before  me  all  the  lords  in  court. — 

\_Exit  an  Attendant. 
Sit,  my  preserver,  by  thy  patient's  side ; 
And  with  this  healthful  hand,  whose  banished  sense 
Thou  hast  repealed,  a  second  time  receive 
The  confirmation  of  my  promised  gift. 
Which  but  attends  thy  naming. 

Enter  several  Lords. 

Fair  maid,  send  forth  thine  eye.     This  youthful  parcel 

Of  noble  bachelors  stand  at  my  bestowing. 

O'er  whom  both  sovereign  power  and  father's  voice 

I  have  to  use.     Thy  frank  election  make ; 

Thou  hast  power  to  choose,  and  they  none  to  forsake. 

Hel.    To  each  of  you  one  fair  and  virtuous  mistress 
Fall,  when  love  please! — Marry,  to  each,  but  one! 

Laf.    I'd  give  bay  Curtal,  and  his  furniture. 
My  mouth  no  more  were  broken  than  these  boys', 
And  writ  as  little  beard. 

King.  Peruse  them  well : 

Not  one  of  those,  but  had  a  noble  father. 

Hel.    Gentlemen, 
Heaven  hath,  through  me,  restored  the  king  to  health. 

All.    W^e  understand  it,  and  thank  heaven  for  you. 

Hel.    I  am  a  simple  maid ;  and  therein  wealthiest, 

That,  I  protest,  I  simply  am  a  maid. 

Please  it  your  majesty,  I  have  done  already. 
The  blushes  in  my  cheeks  thus  whisper  me, 
We  blush,  that  thou  shouldst  choose;  hut,  he  refused^ 
Let  the  white  death  sit  on  thy  cheek  forever ; 
We'll  ne'er  come  there  again. 

King.  Make  choice ;  and,  see, 

Who  shuns  thy  love,  shuns  all  his  love  in  me. 

Hel.    Now,  Dian,  from  thy  altar  do  I  fly; 
And  to  imperial  Love,  that  god  most  high. 
Do  my  sighs  stream.  —  Sir,  will  you  hear  »y  suit  ? 

1  Lord.    And  grant  it. 


Act  II.]    ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.  669 

Hel.  Thanks,  sir  ;  all  the  rest  is  mute. 

Laf.  I  had  rather  be  in  this  choice,  than  throw  ames* 
ace  for  my  life. 

Hel.    The  honor,  sir,  that  flames  in  your  fair  eyes, 
Before  I  speak,  too  threateningly  replies. 
Love  makes  your  fortunes  twenty  times  above 
Her  that  so  wishes,  and  her  humble  love ! 

2  Lord.    No  better,  if  you  please. 

Hel.  My  wish  receive, 

Which  great  love  grant !  and  so  I  take  my  leave. 

Laf.  Do  all  they  deny  her?  An  they  were  sons  of 
mine,  I'd  have  them  whipped ;  or  I  would  send  them  to  the 
Turk,  to  make  eunuchs  of, 

Hel.    Be  not  afraid  \_To  a  lord.]  that  I  your  hand  should 
take ; 
I'll  never  do  you  wrong  for  your  own  sake. 
Blessing  upon  your  vows !  and  in  your  bed 
Find  fairer  fortune,  if  you  ever  wed ! 

Laf.  These  boys  are  boys  of  ice ;  they'll  none  nave  her. 
Sure,  they  are  bastards  to  the  English ;  the  French  ne'er 
got  them. 

Hel.    You  are  too  young,  too  happy,  and  too  good, 
To  make  yourself  a  son  out  of  my  blood. 

4  Lord.    Fair  one,  I  think  not  so. 

Laf.  There's  one  grape  yet,  —  I  am  sure  thy  father 
drank  wine.  —  But  if  thou  be'st  not  an  ass,  I  am  a  youth 
of  fourteen ;  I  have  known  thee  already. 

Hel.    I  dare  not  say,  I  take  you;  [To  Bertram.]  but 
I  give 
Me,  and  my  service,  ever  whilst  I  live, 
Into  your  guiding  power.  —  This  is  the  man. 

King.    Why  then,  young  Bertram,  take  her;  she's  thy 
wife. 

Ber.  My  wife,  my  liege  ?     I  shall  beseech  your  highness, 
In  such  a  business  give  me  leave  to  use 
The  help  of  mine  own  eyes. 

King.  Know'st  thou  not,  Bertram, 

What  she  has  done  for  me? 

Ber.  Yes,  my  good  lord; 

But  never  hope  to  know  why  I  should  marry  her. 

King.    Thou  know'st  she  has  raised  me  from  my  sickly 

bed. 
Ber.    But  follows  it,  my  lord,  to  bring  me  down 
Must  answer  for  your  rising?     I  know  her  well; 
She  had  her  breeding  at  my  father's  charge. 


670  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.       [Act  II 

A  poor  physician's  daughter  my  wife!  —  Disdain 
Rather  corrupt  mo  ever  ! 

King.    'Tis  only  title  thou  disdain'st  in  her,  the  which 
I  can  build  up.     Strange  is  it  that  our  bloods, 
Of  color,  weight,  and  heat,  poured  all  together. 
Would  quite  confound  distinction,  yet  stand  oflf 
In  differences  so  mighty.     If  she  be 
All  that  is  virtuous,  (save  what  thou  dislik'st, 
A  poor  physician's  daughter,)  thou  dislik'st 
Of  virtue  for  the  name.     But  do  not  so. 
From  lowest  place  when  virtuous  things  proceed, 
The  place  is  dignified  by  the  doer's  deed; 
Where  great  additions  swell,  and  virtue  none, 
It  is  a  dropsied  honor.     Good  alone 
Is  good;  —  without  a  name,  vileness  is  so: 
The  property  by  what  it  is  should  go. 
Not  by  the  title.     She  is  young,  wise,  fair; 
In  these  to  nature  she's  immediate  heir ; 
And  these  breed  honor;  that  is  honor's  scorn, 
Which  challenges  itself  as  honor's  born, 
And  is  not  like  the  sire.     Honors  best  thrive, 
When  rather  from  our  acts  we  them  derive 
Than  our  fore-goers.     The  mere  word's  a  slave. 
Debauched  on  every  tomb  ;  on  every  grave, 
A  lying  trophy,  and  as  oft  is  dumb, 
Where  dust  and  damned  oblivion  is  the  tomb 
Of  honored  bones  indeed.     What  should  be  said? 
If  thou  canst  like  this  creature  as  a  maid, 
I  can  create  the  rest.     Virtue,  and  she. 
Is  her  own  dower;  honor  and  wealth  from  me. 

Ber.    I  cannot  love  her,  nor  will  strive  to  do't. 

King.    Thou  wrong'st  thyself,  if  thou  shouldst  strive  to 
choose. 

Eel.    That  you  are  well  restored,  my  lord,  I  am  glad ; 
Let  the  rest  go. 

King.    My  honor's  at  the  stake;  which  to  defeat, 
I  must  produce  my  power :  Here,  take  her  hand, 
Proud,  scornful  boy,  unworthy  this  good  gift; 
That  dost  in  vile  misprision  shackle  up 
My  love,  and  her  desert;  that  canst  not  dream. 
We,  poising  us  in  her  defective  scale, 
Shall  weigh  thee  to  the  beam ;  that  wilt  not  know, 
It  is  in  us  to  plant  thine  honor,  where 
We  please  to  have  it  grow.     Check  thy  contempt: 
Obey  our  will,  which  travails  in  thy  good: 
Believe  not  thy  disdain,  but  presently  . 


Act  II.]       ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.  67T 

Do  thine  own  fortines  that  obedient  right, 

Which  both  thy  duty  owes,  and  our  power  claims; 

Or  I  will  throw  thee  from  my  care  forever, 

Into  the  staggers  and  the  careless  lapse 

Of  youth  and  ignorance;  both  my  revengo  and  hate, 

Loosing  upon  thee  in  the  name  of  justice. 

Without  all  terms  of  pity.     Speak  ;  thine  answer. 

Ber.    Pardon,  my  gracious  lord ;  for  I  submit 
My  fancy  to  your  eyes.     When  I  consider. 
What  great  creation,  and  what  dole  of  honor. 
Flies  where  you  bid  it,  I  find,  that  she,  which  late 
Was  in  my  nobler  thoughts  most  base,  is  now 
The  praised  of  the  king ;  who,  so  ennobled. 
Is,  as  'twere,  born  so. 

King.  Take  her  by  the  hand. 

And  tell  her,  she  is  thine ;  to  whom  I  promise 
A  counterpoise ;  if  not  to  thy  estate, 
A  balance  more  replete. 

Ber.  I  take  her  hand. 

King.    Good  fortune,  and  the  favor  of  the  king, 
Smile  upon  this  contract ;  whose  ceremony 
Shall  seem  expedient  on  the  now-born  grief. 
And  be  performed  to  night :  the  solemn  feast 
Shall  more  attend  upon  the  coming  space, 
Expecting  absent  friends.     As  thou  lov'st  her, 
Thy  love's  to  me  religious ;  else,  does  err. 

[Exeunt  King,  Bertram,  Helena,  Lords, 
and  Attendants. 

Laf.    Do  you  hear,  monsieur  ?     A  word  with  you. 

Par.    Your  pleasure,  sir  ? 

Laf.    Your  lord  and  master  did  well  to  make  his  recan- 
tation. 

Par.    Recantation  !     My  lord  ?     My  master  ? 

Laf.    Ay ;  is  it  not  a  language  I  speak  ? 

Par.    A  most  harsh  one ;  and  not  to  be  understood  with- 
out bloody  succeeding.     My  master  ? 

Laf.    Are  you  companion  to  the  count  Rousillon  ? 

Par.    To  any  count ;  to  all  counts  ;  to  what  is  man. 

Laf.    To  what  IS  count's  man ;  count's  master  is  of  another 
style. 

Par.    You  are  too  old,  sir ;  let  it  satisfy  you,  you  are  too 

old.  ,  .  ,     .  , 

Laf    I  must  tell  thee,  sirrah,  I  write  man ;  to  winch  title 

age  cannot  bring  thee. 

Par.    What  I  dare  too  well  do,  I  dare  not  do. 

Laf.    I  did  think  thee,  for  two  ordinaries,  tc  be  a  pretty 


672  ALTi'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.       [Act  IL 

^\•ise  fellow ;  thou  didst  make  tolerable  vent  of  thy  travel ; 
it  might  pass :  yet  the  scarfs,  and  the  bannerets,  about  thee, 
did  manifoldly  dissuade  me  from  believing  thee  a  vessel  of 
too  great  a  burden.  I  have  now  found  thee ;  when  I  lose 
thee  again,  I  care  not.  Yet  art  thou  good  for  nothing  but 
taking  up ;  and  that  thou  art  scarce  worth. 

Par.  Iladst  thou  not  the  privilege  of  antiquity  upon 
thee, 

Laf.  Do  not  plunge  thyself  too  far  in  anger,  lest  thou 
hasten  thy  trial;  which  if — Lord  have  mercy  on  thee  for 
a  hen  !  So,  my  good  window  of  lattice,  fare  thee  well ;  thy 
casement  I  need  not  open,  for  I  look  through  thee.  Give 
me  thy  hand. 

Par.    My  lord,  you  give  me  most  egregious  indignity. 

Laf.    Ay,  with  all  my  heart ;  and  thou  art  worthy  of  it. 

Par.    I  have  not,  my  lord,  deserved  it. 

Laf.  Yes,  good  faith,  every  dram  of  it ;  and  I  will  not 
bate  thee  a  scruple. 

Par.    Well,  I  shall  be  wiser. 

Laf.  E'en  as  soon  as  thou  canst,  for  thou  hast  to  pull  at 
a  smack  o'  the  contrary.  If  ever  thou  be'st  bound  in  thy 
scarf,  and  beaten,  thou  shalt  find  what  it  is  to  be  proud  of 
thy  bondage.  I  have  a  desire  to  hold  my  acquaintance  with 
thee,  or  rather  my  knowledge ;  that  I  may  say,  in  the  de- 
fault, he  is  a  man  I  know. 

Par.    My  lord,  you  do  me  inost  insupportable  vexation. 

Laf.  I  would  it  were  hell-pains  for  my  sake,  and  my  poor 
doing  eternal ;  for  doing  I  am  past ;  as  I  will  by  thee,  in 
what  motion  age  will  give  me  leave.  \_Eoi;it. 

Par.  W^ell,  thou  hast  a  son  shall  take  this  disgrace  off 
me ;  scurvy,  old,  filthy,  scurvy  lord !  —  Well,  I  must  be 
patient ;  there  is  no  fettering  of  authority.  I'll  beat  him, 
by  my  life,  if  I  can  meet  him  with  any  convenience,  an  he 
were  double  and  double  a  lord.  I'll  have  no  more  pity  of 
his  age,  than  I  would  have  of — I'll  beat  him,  an  if  I  could 
but  meet  him  again. 

Re-enter  Lafeu. 

Laf.  Sirrah,  your  lord  and  master's  married ;  there's 
news  for  you ;  you  have  a  new  mistress. 

Par.  I  most  unfeignedly  beseech  your  lordship  to  make 
some  reservation  of  your  wrongs.  He  is  my  good  lord; 
whom  I  serve  above,  is  my  master. 

Laf   Who?    God? 

Par.  Ay,  sir. 

Laf.    The  devil  it  is,  that's  thy  master.     Why  dost  thou 


Act  IL]       ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.  67^ 

garter  up  tliy  arms  o'  this  fashion  ?  Dost  make  hose  of  thy 
sleeves  ?  Do  other  servants  so  ?  Thou  wert  best  set  thy 
lower  part  where  thy  nose  stands.  By  mine  honor,  if  1 
were  but  two  hours  younger,  I'd  beat  thee ;  methinks  thou 
art  a  general  offence,  and  every  man  should  beat  thee.  I 
think  thou  wast  created  for  men  to  breathe  themselves  upon 
thee. 

Par.    This  is  hard  and  undeserved  measure,  my  lord. 

Laf.  Go  to,  sir ;  you  were  beaten  in  Italy  for  picking  a 
kernel  out  of  a  pomegranate ;  you  are  a  vagabond,  and  no  true 
traveller ;  you  are  more  saucy  with  lords,  and  honorable 
personages,  than  the  heraldry  of  your  birth  and  virtue  gives 
you  commission.  You  are  not  worth  another  word,  else  I'd 
call  you  knave.     I  leave  you.  [Exit. 

Enter  Bertram. 

Par.  Good,  very  good ;  it  is  so  then. — Good,  very  good 
let  it  be  concealed  awhile. 

Ber.    Undone,  and  forfeited  to  cares  forever ! 

Par.    "What  is  the  matter,  sweet  heart? 

Ber.    Although  before  the  solemn  priest  I  have  sworn, 
I  will  not  bed  her. 

Par.  What  ?  what,  sweet  heart  ? 

Ber.    0  my  Parolles,  they  have  married  me !  — 
I'll  to  the  Tuscan  wars,  and  never  bed  her. 

Par.    France  is  a  dog-hole,  and  it  no  more  merits 
The  tread  of  a  man's  foot.     To  the  wars ! 

Ber.  There's  letters  from  my  mother ;  what  the  import  is, 
I  know  not  yet. 

Par.    Ay,  that  would  be  known.     To  the  wars,  my  boy, 
to  the  wars ! 
He  wears  his  honor  in  a  box  unseen. 
That  hugs  his  kicksy-wicksy  here  at  home; 
Spending  his  manly  marrow  in  her  arms. 
Which  should  sustain  the  bound  and  high  curvet 
Of  Mars's  fiery  steed.     To  other  regions ! 
France  is  a  stable;  we,  that  dwell  in't,  jades; 
Therefore,  to  the  war  ! 

Ber.    It  shall  be  so;  I'll  send  her  to  my  house, 
Acquaint  my  mother  with  my  hate  to  her. 
And  wherefore  I  am  fled;  write  to  the  king 
That  wliich  I  durst  not  speak.     His  present  gift 
Shall  furnish  me  to  those  Italian  fields 
W^here  noble  fellows  strike.     War  is  no  strife 
To  the  dark  house  and  the  detested  wife. 

Par.  Will  this  capricie  hold  in  thee,  art  sureT 

Vol.  L— 43  3o 


674  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.       [Act  II. 

Ber.    Go  with  me  to  my  chamber,  and  advise  me. 
I'll  send  her  straight  away.     To-morrow 
I'll  to  the  wars,  she  to  her  single  sorrow. 

Par.    Why,  these  balls  bound ;  there's  noise  in  it.—  - 
hard  ; 
A  young  man,  married,  is  a  man  that's  marred: 
Therefore  away,  and  leave  her  bravely ;  go. 
The  king  has  done  you  wrong ;  but,  hush  !  'tis  so.  [^Exeunt, 

SCENE  IV.      The  same.     Another  Room  in  the  same. 

Enter  HELEN^i  and  Clown. 

Hel.    My  mother  greets  me  kindly ;  is  she  well  ? 

Clo.  She  is  not  well ;  but  yet  she  has  her  health ;  she's 
very  merry ;  but  yet  she  is  not  well :  but  thanks  be  given, 
she's  very  well,  and  wants  nothing  i'the  world ;  but  yet  she 
is  not  well. 

Hel.  If  she  be  very  well,  what  does  she  ail,  that  she's 
not  very  well  ? 

Clo.    Truly,  she's  very  well,  indeed,  but  for  two  things. 

Hel.    What  two  things? 

Clo.  One,  that  she's  not  in  heaven,  whither  God  send  her 
quickly  !  the  other,  that  she's  in  earth,  from  whence  God 
Bend  her  quickly ! 

Enter  Parolles. 

Par.    Bless  you,  my  fortunate  lady ! 

Hel.  I  hope,  sir,  I  have  your  good  will  to  have  mine  own 
good  fortunes. 

Par.  You  had  my  prayers  to  lead  them  on ;  and  to  keep 
them  on,  have  them  still.  —  0,  my  knave !  how  does  my  old 
lady  ? 

C%.  So  that  you  had  her  wrinkles,  and  I  her  money,  I 
would  she  did  as  you  say. 

Par.    Why,  I  say  nothing. 

Clo.  Marry,  you  are  the  wiser  man ;  for  many  a  man's 
tongue  shakes  out  his  master's  undoing.  To  say  nothing, 
to  do  nothing,  to  know  nothing,  and  to  have  nothing,  is  to 
be  a  great  part  of  your  title ;  which  is  within  a  very  little 
of  nothing. 

Par.    Away ;  thou'rt  a  knave. 

Clo.  You  should  have  said,  sir,  before  a  knave  thou  art 
a  knave ;  that  is,  before  me  thou  art  a  knave.  This  had 
been  truth,  sir. 

Par.    Go  to,  thou  art  a  witty  fool,  I  have  found  thee. 


Act  11.]      ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.  G75 

Clo.  Did  you  find  me  in  yourself,  sir  ?  or  were  you  taught 
to  find  me  ?  The  search,  sir,  was  profitable ;  and  much  fool 
may  you  find  in  you,  even  to  the  world's  pleasure,  and  the 
increase  of  laughter. 

Par.    A  good  knave,  i'faith,  and  well  fed. — 
Madam,  my  lord  will  go  away  to-night ; 
A  very  serious  business  calls  on  him. 
The  great  prerogative  and  rite  of  love, 
Which,  as  your  due,  time  claims,  he  does  acknowledge; 
But  puts  it  ofi"  by  a  compelled  restraint ; 
Whose  want,  and  whose  delay,  is  strewed  with  sweets, 
Which  they  distil  now  in  the  curbed  time. 
To  make  the  coming  hour  o'orflow  with  joy, 
And  pleasure  drown  the  brim. 

Set.  What's  his  will  else? 

Par.    That  you  will  take  your  instant  leave  o'  the  king, 
And  make  this  haste  as  your  own  good  proceeding. 
Strengthened  with  what  apology  you  think 
May  make  it  probable  need. 

Hel.  What  more  commands  he? 

Par.    That,  having  this  obtained,  you  presently 
Attend  his  further  pleasure. 

Hel.    In  every  thing  I  Avait  upon  his  will. 

Par.    I  shall  report  it  so. 

Sel.  I  pray  you. —  Come,  sirrah.     \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.     Another  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  Lafeu  and  Bertram. 

Laf.    But  I  hope  your  lordship  thinks  not  him  a  soldier. 

Ber.    Yes,  my  lord,  and  of  very  valiant  approof. 

Laf.    You  have  it  from  his  own  deliverance. 

Ber.    And  by  other  warranted  testimony. 

Laf.  Then  my  dial  goes  not  true ;  I  took  this  lark  for  a 
bunting. 

Ber.  I  do  assure  you,  my  lord,  he  is  very  great  in  know- 
ledge, and  accordingly  valiant. 

Laf.  I  have  then  sinned  against  his  experience,  and  trans- 
gressed against  his  valor ;  and  my  state  that  way  is  dangerous, 
since  I  cannot  yet  find  in  my  heart  to  repent.  Here  he  comes ; 
I  pray  you,  make  us  friends ;  I  will  pursue  the  amity. 

Enter  Parolles. 
Par.    These  things  shall  be  done,  sir.     [_To  Bertram. 
Laf.  Pray  you,  sir,  who's  his  tailor? 


676  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.       [Act  U 

Pa?.    Sir? 

Laf.  0,  I  know  him  well ;  ay,  sir ;  he,  sir,  is  a  good 
workman,  a  very  good  tailor. 

Ber.    Is  she  gone  to  the  king?      [^Aside  to  Parolles. 

Par.    She  is. 

Per.    Will  she  away  to-night? 

Par.    As  you'll  have  her. 

Per.    I  have  writ  my  letters,  casketed  my  treasure, 
Given  order  for  our  horses ;  and  to-night, 
"W^hen  I  should  take  possession  of  the  bride, — 
And,  ere  I  do  begin, 

Paf.  A  good  traveller  is  something  at  the  latter  end  of 
a  dinner ;  but  one  that  lies  three  thirds,  and  uses  a  known 
truth  to  pass  a  thousand  nothings  with,  should  be  once  heard, 
and  thrice  beaten.  —  God  save  you,  captain. 

Per.  Is  there  any  unkindness  between  my  lord  and  you, 
monsieur  ? 

Par.  I  know  not  how  I  have  deserved  to  run  into  my 
lord's  displeasure. 

Laf.  You  have  made  shift  to  run  into't,  boots  and  spurs 
and  all,  like  him  that  leaped  into  the  custard ;  and  out  of 
it  you'll  run  again,  rather  than  suffer  question  for  your 
residence. 

Per.    It  may  be  you  have  mistaken  him,  my  lord. 

Laf.  And  shall  do  so  ever,  though  I  took  him  at  his 
prayers.  Fare  you  well,  my  lord  ;  and  believe  this  of  me, 
there  can  be  no  kernel  in  this  light  nut ;  the  soul  of  this 
man  is  his  clothes.  Trust  him  not  in  matter  of  heavy  con- 
sequence ;  I  have  kept  of  them  tame,  and  know  their  natures. 
— Farewell,  monsieur.  I  have  spoken  better  of  you,  than 
you  have  or  will  deserve  at  my  hand ;  we  must  do  good 
against  evil.  [PJxit. 

Par.    An  idle  lord,  I  swear. 

Per.    I  think  so. 

Par.    Why,  do  you  not  know  him  ? 

Per.    Yes,  I  do  know  him  well ;  and  common  speech 
Gives  him  a  worthy  pass.     Here  comes  my  clog. 

Pnter  Helena. 

Pel.    I  have,  sir,  as  I  was  commanded  from  you, 
Spoke  with  the  king,  and  have  procured  his  leave 
For  present  parting ;  only,  he  desires 
Some  private  speech  with  you. 

Per.  I  shall  obey  his  will. 

You  must  not  marvel,  Helen,  at  my  course, 
Which  holds  not  color  with  the  time,  noi    iocs 


^       "V"'  If-.'      *l'l       V*r     »f, 


J_ 


\  i  : 


678  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.     [Act  III. 


ACT   III 


SCENE    I.     Florence.     A  Room  in  the   Duke's  Palace. 
Flourish 

Enter  the  Duke  of  Florence,  attended ;  two  French  Lords, 
a7id  others. 

Duke.    So  that,  from  point  to  point,  now  have  you  heard 
The  fundamental  reasons  of  this  war ; 
Whose  great  decision  hath  much  blood  let  forth, 
And  more  thirsts  after. 

1  Lo7'd.  Holy  seems  the  quarrel 
Upon  your  grace's  part ;  black  and  fearful 

On  the  opposer. 

Duke.    Therefore  we  marvel  much,  our  cousin  Francf* 
Would,  in  so  just  a  business,  shut  his  bosom 
Against  our  borrowing  prayers. 

2  Lord.  Good  my  lord, 
The  reasons  of  our  state  I  cannot  yield, 

But  like  a  common  and  an  outward  man. 
That  the  great  figure  of  a  council  frames 
By  self-unable  motion ;  therefore  dare  not 
Say  what  I  think  of  it ;  since  I  have  found 
Myself  in  my  uncertain  grounds  to  fail 
As  often  as  I  guessed. 

Duke.  Be  it  his  pleasure. 

2  Lord.    But  I  am  sure,  the  younger  of  our  nature. 
That  surfeit  on  their  ease,  will,  day  by  day, 
Come  here  for  physic. 

Duke.  Welcome  shall  they  be; 

And  all  the  honors,  that  can  fly  from  us, 
Shall  on  them  settle.     You  know  your  places  well ; 
When  better  fall,  for  your  avails  they  fell. 
To-morrow  to  the  field.  [Flourish.     Exeunt. 

SCENE  IL    Rousillon.    A  Room  in  the  Countess's  Palace. 

Enter  Countess  and  Clown. 

Count.  It  hath  happened  all  as  I  would  have  had  it,  save 
that  he  comes  not  along  with  her. 

Clo.  By  my  troth,  I  take  my  young  lord  to  be  a  very  me- 
lancholy man. 


Act  III.]     ALL'S  ^YELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.  679 

Count.    By  wliat  observance,  I  pray  you  ? 

Clo.  Why,  he  will  look  upon  his  boot,  and  sing ;  mend 
the  ruff,  and  sing ;  ask  questions,  and  sing ;  pick  his  teeth, 
and  sing.  I  know  a  man  that  had  this  trick  of  melancholy, 
sold  a  goodly  manor  for  a  song. 

Count.  Let  me  see  what  he  writes,  and  when  he  means 
to  come.  \_Openin<j  a  letter 

Clo,  I  have  no  mind  to  Isbel,  since  I  was  at  court ;  our 
old  ling  and  our  Isbels  o'  the  country  are  nothing  like  youi 
old  ling  and  your  Isbels  o'  the  court.  The  brains  of  my 
Cupid's  knocked  out ;  and  I  begin  to  love,  as  an  old  man 
loves  money,  with  no  stomach. 

Count.    What  have  we  here  ? 

Clo.    E'en  that  you  have  there.  [Exit. 

Count.  [Reads.]  I  have  sent  you  a  daughter-in-law:  she 
hath  recove7-ed  the  king,  and  undone  me.  I  have  wedded 
her  not  bedded  her;  and  sworn  to  make  the  not  eternal. 
You  shall  hear  I  am  run  away ;  know  it,  before  the  report 
come.  If  there  be  breadth  enough  in  the  world,  I  will  hold 
a  long  distance.     My  duty  to  you. 

Your  unfortunate  son, 

Bertram. 

This  is  not  well,  rash  and  unbridled  boy, 
To  fly  the  favors  of  so  good  a  king; 
To  pluck  his  indignation  on  thy  head. 
By  the  misprizing  of  a  maid  too  virtuous 
For  the  contempt  of  empire. 

Re-enter  Clown. 

Clo.  0  madam,  yonder  is  heavy  news  within,  betweea 
two  soldiers  and  my  young  lady. 

Count.    What  is  the  matter? 

Clo  Nay,  there  is  some  comfort  in  the  news  ;  some  com- 
fort ;  your  son  will  not  be  killed  so  soon  as  I  thought  be 
would. 

Count.    Why  should  he  be  killed  t 

Clo  So  say  I,  madam,  if  he  run  away,  as  I  liear  he  does. 
The  danger  is  in  standing  to't;  that's  the  oss  of  men, 
thouc^h  it  be  the  getting  of  children.  Here  they  come  will 
tell  you  more;  for  my  part,  I  only  hear  your  son  was  run 
away.  ^ 

Enter  Helena  and  two  Gentlemen. 

1  aent.    Save  you,  good  madam 

Ed.    Madam,  my  lord  is  gone,  forever  gone. 


680  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.     [Act  III 

2  Gent.    Do  not  say  so. 

Count.  Think  upon  patience. — 'Pray  you,  |]^entlemen, — 
I  havo  felt  so  many  quirks  of  joy  and  grief, 
That  tlio  first  face  of  neither,  on  the  start,  ' 
Can  woman  we  unto't. — Where  is  my  son,  I  pray  you  ? 

2  Gent.   Madam,  he's  gone  to  serve  the  duke  of  Florence. 
We  met  him  thitherward ;  from  thence  we  came. 
And,  after  some  despatch  in  hand  at  court. 
Thither  we  bend  again. 

Hel.    Look  on  his  letter,  madam  ;  here's  my  passport. 

[Reads.]      When  thou  canst  get  the  ring  \q)on  my  finger 
which  7iever  shall  come  off,  and  show  me  a  child  begotten 
of  thy  body,  that  I  am  father  to,  then  call  me  husband ; 
but  in  such  a  then  I  write  a  never. 
This  is  a  dreadful  sentence ! 

Count.    Brought  you  this  letter,  gentlemen? 

1  Ge7it.  Ay,  madam ; 
And,  for  the  contents'  sake,  are  sorry  for  our  pains. 

Count.    I  pr'ythee,  lady,  have  a  better  cheer ; 
If  thou  engrossest  all  the  griefs  are  thine, 
Thou  robb'st  me  of  a  moiety.     He  was  my  son ; 
But  I  do  wash  his  name  out  of  my  blood,  • 
And  thou  art  all  my  child,  —  Towards  Florence  is  he? 

2  Gent.    Ay,  madam. 

Count.  And  to  be  a  soldier? 

2  Gent.    Such  is  his  noble  purpose;  and,  believe't, 
The  duke  will  lay  upon  him  all  the  honor 
That  good  convenience  claims. 

Count.  Return  you  thither? 

1  Gent.    Ay,  madam,  with  the  swiftest  wdng  of  speed. 

Hel.  [Reads.]     Till  I  have  no  wife,  I  have  nothing  in 
France. 
Tis  bitter! 

Count.    Find  you  that  there  ? 

Hel.  Ay,  madam. 

1  Gent.    'Tis  but  the  boldness  of  his  hand,  haply,  which 
His  heart  was  not  consenting  to. 

Cou7it.    Nothing  in  France,  until  he  have  no  wife ! 
There's  nothing  here  that  is  too  good  for  him, 
But  only  she ;  and  she  deserves  a  lord 
That  twenty  such  rude  boys  might  tend  upon. 
And  call  her,  hourly,  mistress.     Who  was  with  him  ? 

1  Gent.    A  servant  only,  and  a  gentleman 
Which  I  have  some  time  known. 

Count,  Parolles,  was't  not? 


Act  III.]      ALLS  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.  681 

1  Gent.    Ay,  my  good  lady,  he. 

Count.    A  vei-y  tainted  fellow,  and  full  of  wickednesau 
My  son  corrupts  a  well-derived  nature 
With  his  inducement. 

1  Gent.  Indeed,  good  lady. 
The  fellow  has  a  deal  of  that,  too  much. 
Which  holds  him  much  to  have. 

Count.   You  are  welcome,  gentlemen. 
I  will  entreat  you,  when  you  see  my  son, 
To  tell  him  that  his  sword  can  never  win 
The  honor  that  he  loses.     More  I'll  entreat  you 
Written  to  hear  along. 

2  Gent.  We  serve  you,  madam, 
In  that  and  all  your  worthiest  affairs. 

Count.    Not  so,  but  as  we  change  our  courtesies. 

Will  you  draw  near? 

[Exeunt  Countess  and  Gentlemea 

Hel.    Till  I  have  no  wife,  I  have  nothing  in  France. 
Nothing  in  France,  until  he  has  no  wife ! 
Thou  shalt  have  none,  Rousillon,  none  in  France ; 
Then  hast  thou  all  again.     Poor  lord !  is't  I 
That  chase  thee  from  thy  country,  and  expose 
Those  tender  limbs  of  thine  to  the  event 
Of  the  none-sparing  war?     And  is  it  I 
That  drive  thee  from  the  sportive  court,  where  thou 
Wast  shot  at  with  fair  eyes,  to  be  the  mark 
Of  smoky  muskets?     0  you  leaden  messengers. 
That  ride  upon  the  violent  speed  of  fire, 
Fly  with  false  aim;  move  the  still-peering  air. 
That  sings  with  piercing,  do  not  touch  my  lord! 
Whoever  shoots  at  him,  I  set  him  there; 
Whoever  charges  on  his  forward  breast, 
I  am  the  caitifi",  that  do  hold  him  to  it; 
And,  though  I  kill  him  not,  I  am  the  cause 
His  death  was  so  effected;  better  'twere 
I  met  the  ravin  lion  when  he  roared 
With  sharp  constraint  of  hunger;  better  'twere 
That  all  the  miseries,  which  nature  owes, 
Were  mine  at  once.     No,  come  thou  home,  Rousillon, 
Whence  honor  but  of  danger  wins  a  scar. 
As  oft  it  loses  all.     I  will  be  gone: 
My  bein-^  here  it  is  that  holds  thee  hence. 
Shall  I  stay  here  to  do't?     No,  no,  although 
The  air  of  paradise  did  fan  the  house. 
And  angels  officed  all:  I  will  be  gone; 
That  pitiful  rumor  may  report  my  flight, 


682  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.     [Act  lH 

To  ccii?o1ate  tliine  ear.      Come,  night;  end,  day! 

For  with  the  dark,  poor  thief,  I'll  steal  away.         [IJxit. 

SCENE  III.     Florence.     Before  the  Duke's  Palase. 
Flourish. 

Enter  the  Duke  of  Florence,  Bertram,  Lords,  Officers, 
Soldiers,  and  others. 

DuJce.    The  general  of  our  horse  thou  art :  and  we, 
Great  in  our  hope,  lay  our  best  love  and  credence 
Upon  thy  promising  fortune. 

Ber.  Sir,  it  is 

A  charge  too  heavy  for  my  strength ;  but  yet 
We'll  strive  to  bear  it  for  your  worthy  sake, 
To  the  extreme  edge  of  hazard. 

Duke.  Then  go  thou  forth; 

And  fortune  play  upon  thy  prosperous  helm, 
As  thy  auspicious  mistress ! 

Ber.  This  very  day, 

Great  Mars,  I  put  myself  into  thy  file : 
Make  me  but  like  my  thoughts ;  and  I  shall  prove 
A  lover  of  thy  drum,  hater  of  love.  [^Bxeunt. 

SCENE  IV.     Rousillon.     A  Boom  in  the  Countess's 
Palace. 

Enter  Countess  and  Steward. 

Count.    Alas !  and  would  you  take  the  letter  of  her  ? 
Might  you  not  know,  she  would  do  as  she  has  done. 
By  sending  me  a  letter  ?     Read  it  again. 

Stew.    /  am  Saint  Jaques   filgrim^  thither  gone; 

Ambitious  love  hath  so  in  me  offended, 
That  barefoot  plod  I  the  cold  ground  upo7i^ 

With  sainted  vow  my  faults  to  have  amended. 
Write,  write,  that  from  the  bloody  course  of  war, 

My  dearest  master,  your  dear  son,  may  hie; 
Bless  him  at  home  in  peace,  whilst  I  from  far, 

His  name  vfith  zealous  fervor  sanctify. 
Sis  taken  labors  bid  him  me  forgive; 

I  his  despiteful  Juno,  sent  him  forth 
From  courtly  friends,  with  camping  foes  to  live, 

Where  death  and  danger  dog  the  heels  of  worth. 
He  is  too  good  and  fair  for  death  and  me, 
Whom  1  myself  embrace,  to  set  him  free. 


Act  III.]     ALi;5  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.  683 

Count.  Ah,  what  sharp  stings  are  in  her  mihiest  -words ! — — 
Rinaldo,  you  did  never  lack  advice  so  much, 
As  letting  her  pass  so:  had  I  spoke  with  her, 
I  could  have  well  diverted  her  intents, 
Which  thus  she  hath  prevented. 

Stew.  Pardon  me,  madam 

If  I  had  given  you  this  at  over-night. 
She  might  have  been  o'erta'en;  and  yet  she  writes, 
Pursuit  would  be  but  vain. 

Count.  What  angel  shall 

Bless  this  unworthy  husband?     He  cannot  thrive, 
Unless  her  prayers,  whom  Heaven  delights  to  hear. 
And  loves  to  grant,  reprieve  him  from  the  wrath 
Of  greatest  justice. — Write,  write,  Rinaldo, 
To  this  unworthy  husband  of  his  wife; 
Let  every  word   weigh  heavy  of  her  worth. 
That  he  does  weigh  too  light:  my  greatest  grief. 
Though  little  he  do  feel  it,  set  down  sharply. 
Despatch  the  most  convenient  messenger :  — 
When,  haply,  he  shall  hear  that  she  is  gone, 
He  will  retui-n ;  and  hope  I  may,  that  she, 
Hearing  so  much,  will  speed  her  foot  again. 
Led  hither  by  pure  love :  which  of  them  both 
Is  dearest  to  me,  I  have  no  skill  in  sense 
To  make  distinction. — Provide  this  messenger :  — 
My  heart  is  heavy,  and  mine  age  is  weak ; 
Grief  would  have  tears,  and  sorrow  bids  me  speak.  [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.      Without    the    toalls    of   Florence.      Tucket, 
afar  off. 

Enter    an    old   Widow   of    Florence,    Diana,   Violenta, 
Mariana,  and  other  Citizens. 

Wid.  Nay,  come ;  for  if  they  do  approach  the  city,  we 
shall  lose  all  the  sight. 

Dia.  They  say  the  French  count  has  done  most  honorable 
service. 

Wid.  It  is  reported  that  he  has  taken  their  greatest  com- 
mander; and  that  with  his  own  hand  he  slew  the  duke's 
brother.  We  have  lost  our  labor;  tliey  are  gone  a  con- 
trary  way :  hark  !  you  may  know  by  their  trumpets. 

Mar.  Come,  let's  return  again,  and  suffice  ourselves  with 
the  report  of  it.  Well,  Diana,  take  heed  Df  this  French 
earl :  the  honor  of  a  maid  is  her  name  ;  and  no  legacy  is  bo 
rich  as  honesty. 


684  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.     [Act  III 

Wid.  I  have  told  my  neiglibor  how  you  have  been  soli- 
cited by  a  gentleman  his  companion. 

Mar.  I  know  that  knave  ;  hang  him  !  one  Parolles  :  a 
filthy  officer  he  is  in  those  suggestions  for  the  young  earl. — 
Beware  of  th-em,  Diana ;  their  promises,  enticements,  oaths, 
tokens,  and  all  these  engines  of  lust,  are  not  the  things  they 
go  under.  Many  a  maid  hath  been  seduced  by  them  ;  and 
the  misery  is,  example,  that  so  terrible  shows  in  the  Avreck 
of  maidenhood,  cannot,  for  all  that,  dissuade  succession,  but 
that  they  are  limed  with  the  twigs  that  threaten  them.  I 
hope  I  need  not  to  advise  you  further ;  but  I  hope  your  own 
grace  will  keep  you  where  you  are,  though  there  were  no 
Further  danger  known,  but  the  modesty  which  is  so  lost. 

Dia.    You  shall  not  need  to  fear  me. 

Enter  Helena,  in  the  dress  of  a  Pilgrim. 

Wid.    I  hope  so. Look,  here  comes  a  pilgrim  ;  I  know 

she  will  lie  at  my  house  :  thither  they  send  one  another.    I'll 

question  her. — 

God  save  you,  pilgrim  !     Whither  are  you  bound  ? 

Hel.    To  Saint  Jaques  le  Grand. 
Where  do  the  palmers  lodge,  I  do  beseech  you  ? 

Wid.    At  the  Saint  Francis  here,  beside  the  port. 

Sel.    Is  this  the  way  ? 

Wid.  Ay,  marry,  is  it. — Hark  you; 

[A  march  afar  off. 
They  come  this  way. — If  you  will  tarry,  holy  pilgrim, 
But  till  the  troops  come  by, 
I  will  conduct  you  where  you  shall  be  lodged. 
The  rather,  for,  I  think,  I  know  your  hostess 
As  ample  as  myself. 

Hel.  Is  it  yourself? 

Wid.    If  you  shall  please  so,  pilgrim. 

Hel.    I  thank  you,  and  will  stay  upon  your  leisure. 

Wid.    You  came,  I  think,  from  France  ? 

Hel.  I  did  so. 

Wid.    Here  you  shall  see  a  countryman  of  yours, 
That  has  done  worthy  service. 

Hel.  His  name,  I  pray  you. 

Dia.    The  count  Rousillon.     Know  you  such  a  <)ne? 

Hel.    But  by  the  ear,  that  hears  most  nobly  of  him ; 
His  face  I  know  not. 

Dia.  Whatsoe'er  he  is, 

He's  bravely  taken  here.     He  stole  from  Franco, 
As  'tis  reported,  for  the  king  had  married  him 
Against  his  liking.     Think  you  it  is  so  ? 


Act  III.]     ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.  68& 

Heh    Ay,  surely,  mere  the  truth ;  I  know  his  lady. 

Did.    There  is  a  gentleman,  that  serves  the  count, 
Reports  but  coarsely  of  her. 

Hel.  What's  his  name  ? 

Dia.    Monsieur  Parolles. 

Hel.  0,  I  believe  with  him, 

In  argument  of  praise,  or  to  the  worth 
Of  the  great  count  himself,  she  is  too  mean 
To  have  her  name  repeated;  all  her  deserving 
Is  a  reserved  honesty,  and  that 
I  have  not  heard  examined. 

Bia.  Alas,  poor  lady! 

'Tis  a  hard  bondage,  to  become  the  wife 
Of  a  detesting  lord. 

Wid.    Ay,  right ;  good  creature,  wheresoe'er  she  is, 
Her  heart  weighs  sadly:  this  young  maid  might  do  her 
A  shrewd  turn,  if  she  pleased. 

Hel.  How  do  you  mean? 

May  be  the  amorous  count  solicits  her 
In  the  unlawful  purpose. 

Wid.  He  does,  indeed; 

And  brokes  with  all  that  can  in  such  a  suit 
Corrupt  the  tender  honor  of  a  maid: 
But  she  is  armed  for  him,  and  keeps  her  gua»d 
In  honestest  defence. 

Enter,  with  Drum  and  Colors,  a  parti/  of  the  Florentine 
Army,  Bertram  und  Parolles. 

Mar.    The  gods  forbid  else ! 

Wid.  So,  now  they  come. — 

That  is  Antonio,  the  duke's  eldest  son; 
That,  Escalus. 

Eel.  Which  is  the  Frenchman? 

Dia.  ^® ' 

That  with  the  plume:  'tis  a  most  gallant  fellow; 
I  would  he  loved  his  wife :  if  he  were  honester. 
He  were  much  goodlier.— Is't  not  a  handsome  gentleman' 

Eel.    I  like  him  well. 

Dia.    'Tis  pity  he  is  not  honest.     Yond  s  that  same  knave. 
That  leads  him  to  these  places;  were  I  his  lady, 
I'd  poison  that  vile  rascal. 

j^^l  Which  is  he  t 

Dia.  That  jack-an-apes  with  scarfs.     Why  is  he  melan- 

choly?  .  , 

Eel.    Perchance  he's  hurt  i   the  battle. 
Par.    Lose  our  drum !     Well. 
3h 


686  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.     [Act  IIL 

Mar.    lie's  shrewdly  vexed  at  sometliing.     Look,  lie  has 
Bpied  us. 

Wid.    Marry,  hang  you ! 

Mar.    And  your  courtesy,  for  a  ring-carrier ! 

[Exeunt  Bertram,  Parolles,  Officers, 
and  Soldiers. 

Wid.   The  troop  is  past.     Come,  pilgrim,  I  will  bring  you 
Where  you  shall  host:   of  enjoined  penitents. 
There's  four  or  five,  to  great  Saint  Jaques  bound, 
Already  at  my  house. 

Hel.  I  humbly  thank  you. 

Please  it  this  matron,  and  this  gentle  maid, 
To  eat  with  us  to-night,  the  charge,  and  thanking, 
Shall  be  for  me ;  and,  to  requite  you  further 
I  will  bestow  some  precepts  on  this  virgin, 
Worthy  the  note. 

Both.  We'll  take  your  offer  kindly.          [Exeunt. 


SCENE  VI.     Camp  before  Florence. 
Enter  Bertram  and  the  two  French  Lords. 

1  Lord.  Nay,  good  my  lord,  put  him  to't :  let  him  have 
his  way. 

2  Lord.  If  your  lordship  find  him  not  a  hilding,  hold  me 
no  more  in  your  respect. 

1  Lord.    On  my  life,  my  lord,  a  bubble. 

Ber.    Do  you  think  I  am  so  far  deceived  in  him  ? 

1  Lord.  Believe  it,  my  lord,  in  mine  own  direct  know- 
ledge, without  any  malice,  but  to  speak  of  him  as  my  kins- 
man, he's  a  most  notable  coward,  an  infinite  and  endless 
liar,  an  hourly  promise-breaker,  the  owner  of  no  one  good 
quality  worthy  your  lordship's  entertainment. 

2  Lord.  It  were  fit  you  knew  him  ;  lest,  reposing  too  far 
in  his  virtue,  which  he  hath  not,  he  might,  at  some  great  and 
trusty  business,  in  a  main  danger,  fail  you. 

Ber.  I  would  I  knew  in  what  particular  action  to  try 
him. 

2  Lord.  None  better  than  to  let  him  fetch  off  his  drum, 
which  you  hear  him  so  confidently  undertake  to  do. 

1  Jjord.  I,  with  a  troop  of  Florentines,  will  suddenly 
fcurprise  him ;  such  I  will  have,  Avhom,  I  am  sure,  he  knows 
not  from  the  enemy :  we  will  bind  and  hoodwink  him  so, 
that  he  shall  suppose  no  other  but  that  he  is  carried  into 
the  leaguer  of  the  adversaries,  when  we  bring  him  to  our 
tents.     Be  but  your  lordship  present  at  his  examination ;  if 


Act  III.]     ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.  687 

he  do  not,  for  the  promise  of  his  life,  and  in  the  highest 
compulsion  of  base  fear,  offer  to  betray  you,  and  deliv(  r  all 
the  intelligence  in  his  power  against  you,  and  that  with  the 
divine  forfeit  of  his  soul  upon  oath,  never  trust  my  judgment 
in  any  thing. 

2  Lord.  0,  for  the  love  of  laughter,  let  him  fetch  his 
drum  ;  he  says  he  has  a  stratagem  for't.  When  your  lord- 
ship sees  the  bottom  of  his  success  in't,  and  to  what  metal 
this  counterfeit  lump  of  ore  will  be  melted,  if  you  give  him 
not  John  Drum's  entertainment,  your  inclining  cannot  be 
removed.     Here  he  eomes. 

EnUr  Parolles. 

1  Lord.  0,  for  the  love  of  laughter,  hinder  not  the  humor 
of  his  design ;  let  him  fetch  off  his  drum  in  any  hand. 

Ber.  How  now,  monsieur  ?  This  drum  sticks  sorely  in 
your  disposition. 

2  Lord.    A  pox  on't,  let  it  go ;  'tis  but  a  drum. 

Par.  But  a  drum  !  Is't  but  a  drum?  A  drum  so  lost ! 
—  There  was  an  excellent  command  !  To  charge  in  with 
our  horse  upon  our  own  wings,  and  to  rend  our  own  soldiers. 

2  Lord.  That  was  not  to  be  blamed  in  the  command  of 
the  service  ;  it  was  a  disaster  of  war  that  Ci\2sar  himself 
could  not  have  prevented,  if  he  had  been  there  to  com- 
mand. 

Ber.  W^ell,  we  cannot  greatly  condemn  our  success.  Some 
dishonor  we  had  in  the  loss  of  that  drum  ;  but  it  is  not  to 
be  recovered. 

Par.    It  might  have  been  recovered. 

Ber.    It  might,  but  it  is  not  now. 

Par.  It  is  to  be  recovered  :  but  that  the  merit  of  service 
is  seldom  attributed  to  the  true  and  exact  performer,  I  would 
have  that  drum  or  another,  or  Idc  jacet. 

Ber.  Why,  if  you  have  a  stomach  to't,  monsieur,  if  you 
think  your  mystery  in  stratagem  can  bring  this  instrument 
of  honor  again  into  his  native  quarter,  be  magnanimous  in 
the  enterprise,  and  go  on.  I  will  grace  the  attempt  for  a 
worthy  exploit ;  if  you  speed  well  in  it,  tlie  d\ike  shall  both 
speak  of  it,  and  extend  to  you  what  further  becomes  hia 
greatness,  even  to  the  utmost  syllable  of  your  worthiness. 

Par.    By  the  hand  of  a  soldier,  I  will  undertake  it. 

Ber.    But  you  must  not  now  slumber  in  it. 

Par.  I'll  about  it  this  evening ;  inid  I  will  i.resently  pen 
down  my  dilemmas,  encourage  myself  in  my  (•ert:iiMty,  put 
myself  into  my  mortal  preparation,  and,  hy  midnight,  look 
to  hear  further  from  me. 


G88  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.     [Act  III. 

Ber.  May  I  be  bold  to  acquaint  his  grace  you  are  gone 
about  it  ? 

Far.  I  know  not  -what  the  success  will  be,  my  lord ;  but 
the  attempt  I  vow. 

Ber,  I  know  thou  art  valiant ;  and,  to  the  possibility  of 
thy  soldiership,  will  subscribe  for  thee.     Farewell. 

Bar.    I  love  not  many  words.  [^Exit. 

1  Lord.  No  more  than  a  fish  loves  water. — Is  not  this  a 
strange  fellow,  my  lord  ?  that  so  confidently  seems  to  under- 
take this  business,  which  he  knows  is  not  to  be  done ;  damns 
himself  to  do,  and  dares  better  be  damned  than  to  do't. 

2  Lord.  You  do  not  know  him,  my  lord,  as  we  do  :  cer- 
tain it  is,  that  he  will  steal  himself  into  a  man's  favor,  and, 
for  a  week,  escape  a  great  deal  of  discoveries  ;  but  when  you 
find  him  out,  you  have  him  ever  after. 

Ber.  Why,  do  you  think  he  will  make  no  deed  at  all  of 
this,  that  so  seriously  he  does  address  himself  unto  ? 

1  Lord.  None  in  the  world  ;  but  return  with  an  invention, 
and  clap  upon  you  two  or  three  probable  lies :  but  we  have 
almost  embossed  him ;  you  shall  see  his  fall  to-night ;  for, 
indeed,  he  is  not  for  your  lordship's  respect. 

2  Lord.  We  will  make  you  some  sport  with  the  fox,  ere 
we  case  him.  He  was  first  smoked  by  the  old  lord  Lafeu. 
When  his  disguise  and  he  is  parted,  tell  me  what  a  sprat 
you  shall  find  him ;  which  you  shall  see  this  very  night. 

1  Lord.    I  must  go  look  my  twigs ;  he  shall  be  caught. 
Ber.    Your  brother,  he  shall  go  along  with  me. 

1  Lord.    As't  please  your  lordship.     I'll  leave  you. 

[Bxit. 
Ber.    Now  will  I  lead  you  to  the  house,  and  show  you 
The  lass  I  spoke  of. 

2  Lord.  But,  you  say,  she's  honest. 

Ber.    That's  all  the  fault.     I  spoke  with  her  but  once, 
And  found  her  wondrous  cold;  but  I  sent  to  her, 
By  this  same  coxcomb  that  we  have  i'the  wind, 
Tokens  and  letters  which  she  did  resend; 
And  this  is  all  I  have  done.     She's  a  fair  creature : 
Will  you  go  see  her  ? 

2  Lord.  With  all  my  heart,  my  lord.      [Exeunt: 

SCENE  VII.     Florence.    A  Room  in  the  Widow's  ffcuse 
Enter  Helena  and  Widow. 

Hel.    If  you  misdoubt  me  that  I  am  not  she, 
I  know  not  how  I  shall  assure  you  further. 
But  1  shall  lose  the  grounds  I  work  upon 


Act  TIL]     ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.  689 

Wicl    Though  my  estate  be  fallen,  I  was  well  born, 
Nothing  acquainted  with  these  businesses; 
And  would  not  put  my  reputation  now 
In  any  staining  act. 

Sel.  Nor  would  I  wish  you. 

First,  give  me  trust,  the  count  he  is  ray  husband; 
And  what  to  your  sworn  counsel  I  have  spoken. 
Is  so,  from  word  to  word;  and  then  you  cannot. 
By  the  good  aid  that  I  of  you  shall  borrow, 
Err  in  bestowing  it. 

Wid.  I  should  believe  you; 

For  you  have  showed  me  that  which  well  approves 
You  are  great  in  fortune. 

ITel.  Take  this  purse  of  gold 

And  let  me  buy  your  friendly  help  thus  far, 
Which  I  will  overpay,  and  pay  again, 
When  I  have  found  it.     The  count  he  wooes  your  daughter 
Lays  down  his  wanton  siege  before  her  beauty. 
Resolves  to  carry  her ;  let  her,  in  fine,  consent. 
As  we'll  direct  her  how  'tis  best  to  bear  it, 
Now  his  important  blood  will  nought  deny 
That  she'll  demand.     A  ring  the  county  wears 
That  downward  hath  succeeded  in  his  house. 
From  son  to  son,  some  four  or  five  descents 
Since  the  first  father  wore* it:  this  ring  he  hold? 
In  most  rich  choice ;  yet,  in  his  idle  fire, 
To  buy  his  will,  it  would  not  seem  too  dear, 
Howe'er  repented  after. 

Wid.  Now  I  see 

The  bottom  of  your  purpose. 

Rel    You  see  it  lawful  then.     It  is  no  more 
But  that  your  daughter,  ere  she  seems  as  won, 
Desires  this  ring;  appoints  him  an  encounter; 
In  fine,  delivers  me  to  fill  the  time. 
Herself  most  chastely  absent:  after  this, 
To  marry  her,  I'll  add  three  thousand  crowns 
To  what  is  past  already. 

Wid.  I  have  yielded. 

Instruct  my  daughter  how  she  shall  pcrsever, 
That  time  and  place,  with  this  deceit  so  lawful, 
May  prove  coherent.     Every  night  he  comes 
With  musics  of  all  sorts,  and  songs  composed 
To  her  unworthiness.     It  nothing  steads  us 
To  chide  him  from  our  eaves;  for  he  persists, 
As  if  his  life  lay  on't.  . 

ffel.  Why,  then,  to-night 

Vol.  L  — 44  3h* 


coo  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.      [Act  IV. 

Let  us  assay  our  plot;  which,  if  it  speed, 

Is  wicked  meaning  in  a  lawful  deed, 

And  lawful  meaning  in  a  lawful  act; 

Where  hoth  not  sin,  and  yet  a  sinful  fact. 

But  let's  about  it.  [^xeunt. 


ACT   IV. 

SCENE  I.      Without  the  Florentine  Camp. 
Enter  first  Lord,  ivith  five  or  six  Soldiers  in  ambush. 

1  Lord.  He  can  come  no  other  way  but  by  this  hedge's 
corner.  When  you  sally  upon  him,  speak  what  terrible  Ian 
guage  you  will ;  though  you  understand  it  not  yourselves, 
no  matter ;  for  we  must  not  seem  to  understand  him ;  unless 
some  one  among  us,  whom  we  must  produce  for  an  inter- 
preter. 

Good  captain,  let  me  be  the  interpreter. 

Art  not  acquainted  with  him  ?     Knows  he  not 

No,  sir,  I  warrant  you. 
But  what  linsey-woolsey  hast  thou  to  speak  to 

Even  such  as  you  speak  to  me. 

He  must  think  us  some  band  of  strangers  i'  the 
adversary's  entertainment.  Now  he  hath  a  smack  of  all 
neighboring  languages ;  therefore  we  must  every  one  be  a 
man  of  his  own  fancy,  not  to  know  what  we  speak  one  to 
another ;  so  we  seem  to  know,  is  to  know  straight  our  pur- 
pose :  chough's  language,  gabble  enough  and  good  enough. 
As  for  you,  interpreter,  you  must  seem  very  politic.  But 
couch,  ho  !  here  he  comes ;  to  beguile  two  hours  in  a  sleep, 
and  then  to  return  and  swear  the  lies  he  forges. 

.Enter  Parolles. 

Par.  Ten  o'clock :  within  these  three  hours  'twill  be  time 
enough  to  go  home.  What  shall  I  say  I  have  done  ?  It 
must  be  a  very  plausible  invention  that  carries  it.  They 
begin  to  smoke  me ;  and  disgraces  have  of  late  knocked  too 
often  at  ray  door.  I  find  my  tongue  is  too  fool-hardy ;  but 
my  heart  hath  the  fear  of  Mars  before  it,  and  of  his  crea- 
tures, not  dai'ing  the  reports  of  my  tongue. 


1  Sokl 

1  Lo7-d. 

thy  voice  ? 

1  Sold. 

1  Lord. 

us  again  ? 

1  Sold. 

1  Lord. 

Act  IV.]      ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.  (J91 

1  Lord.  This  is  tlie  first  truth,  that  e'er  thine  own  tongue 
was  guilty  of.  [.-Isu^?. 

Par.  What  the  devil  should  move  me  to  undertake  the 
recovery  of  this  drum  ;  being  not  ignorant  of  the  impossi- 
bility, and  knowing  I  had  no  such  purpose  ?  I  must  give 
myself  some  hurts,  and  say  I  got  them  in  exploit.  Yet 
slight  ones  will  not  carry  it ;  they  will  say,  Came  you  off 
with  so  little  ?  and  great  ones  I  dare  not  give.  Wherefore? 
What's  the  instance  ?  Tongue,  I  must  put  you  into  a  but- 
terwoman's  mouth,  and  buy  another  of  Bajazet's  mute,  if 
you  prattle  me  into  these  perils. 

1  Lord.  Is  it  possible  he  should  know  what  he  is,  and  be 
that  he  is?  [^Aside. 

Par.  I  would  the  cutting  of  my  garments  would  serve 
the  turn ;  or  the  breaking  of  my  Spanish  sword. 

1  Lord.    We  cannot  afford  you  so.  \_Aside. 

Par.  Or  the  baring  of  my  beard ;  and  to  say,  it  was  in 
stratagem. 

1  Lord.    'Twould  not  do.  {^Aside. 

Par.    Or  to  drown  my  clothes,  and  say,  I  was  stripped. 

1  Lord.    Hardly  serve.  [^Aside. 

Par.  Though  I  swore  I  leaped  from  the  window  of  the 
citadel 

1  Lord.    How  deep  ?  ^Aside. 

Par.    Thirty  fathom. 

1  Lord  Three  great  oaths  would  scarce  make  that  be 
believed.  [^Aside. 

Par.  I  would  I  had  any  drum  of  the  enemy's ;  I  would 
swear  I  recovered  it. 

1  Lord.    You  shall  hear  one  anon.  [^Aside. 

Par.    A  drum  now  of  the  enemy's 

\_Alarum  witliin. 

1  Lord.    Throca  movousus,  cargo,  cargo,  cargo. 

All.    Cargo,  cargo,  villianada  par  corbo,  cargo. 

Par.    0!  ransom,  ransom.— Do  not  hide  mine  eyes._ 
\_They  seize  liini  and  blindfold  him 

I  Sold.    Boskos  th-omuldo  boskos. 

Par.    I  know  you  are  the  Mu.skos'  regiment, 
And  I  shall  lose  my  life  for  want  of  language. 
If  there  be  here  German,  or  Dane,  Low  Dutch, 
Italian,  or  French,  let  him  speak  to  me; 
I  will  discover  that  which  shall  undo 
The  Florentine. 

1  Sold.  Boskos  vauvado. 

I  understand  thee,  and  can  speak  thy  tongue  — 
Kerelybonto :  —  Sir, 


G92  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.      [Act  IT 

Betake  thee  to  thy  faitli,  for  seventeen  poniards 
Are  at  thy  hosom. 

Par.  Oh ! 

1  Sold.  0  pray,  pray,  pray. 

3Ianka  ravania  dulclie. 

1  Lord.  Oscorhi  dulcJios  voUvorca. 

1  Sold.    The  general  is  content  to  spare  thee  yet; 
And,  hoodwinked  as  thou  art,  will  lead  thee  on 
To  gather  from  thee ;  haply,  thou  niay'st  inform 
Something  to  save  thy  life. 

Par.  0,  let  me  live, 

And  all  the  secrets  of  our  camp  I'll  show, 
Their  force,  their  purposes.     Nay,  I'll  speak  that 
Which  you  will  wonder  at. 

1  Sold.  But  wilt  thou  faithfully  ? 

Par,    If  I  do  not,  damn  me. 

1  Sold.  Acordo  linta — 

Come  on,  thou  art  granted  space. 

\^Exit,  with  Parolles  guarded. 

1  Lord.  Go  tell  the  count  Rousillon,  and  my  brother, 
We  have  caught  the  woodcock,  and  will  keep  him  muffled, 
Till  we  do  hear  from  them. 

2  Sold.  Captain,  I  will. 

1  Lord.    He  will  betray  us  all  unto  ourselves ;  — 
Inform  'em  that. 

2  Sold.  So  I  will,  sir 

1  Lord.    Till    then,    I'll    keep    him    dark,    and    safely 
locked.  \_Exeunt, 

SCENE  II.     Florence.     A  Room  in  the  Widow's  House 
Enter  Bertram  and  Diana. 

Ber.    They  told  me  that  your  name  was  Fontibell. 

Dia,    No,  my  good  lord,  Diana. 

Ber.  Titled  goddess ; 

And  w^orth  it,  with  addition !     But,  fair  soul, 
In  your  fine  frame  hath  love  no  quality? 
If  the  quick  fire  of  youth  light  not  your  mind, 
You  are  no  maiden,  but  a  monument. 
W^hen  you  are  dead,  you  should  be  such  a  one 
As  you  are  now,  for  you  are  cold  and  stern ; 
And  now  you  should  be  as  your  mother  was, 
When  your  sweet  self  was  got. 

Dia.    She  then  was  honest. 

Ber.  So  should  y)u  be. 


Act  IV.]     AILS  ^YELL  THAT  ENDS  ^YELL  693 

Dia.  No. 

My  mother  did  but  duty;  such,  my  lord, 
As  you  owe  to  your  wife. 

Ber.  No  more  of  that! 

1  pr'ythee,  do  not  strive  against  my  vows : 
I  was  compelled  to  her ;  but  I  love  thee 
By  love's  own  sweet  constraint,  and  will  forever 
Do  thee  all  rights  of  service. 

Dia.  Ay,  so  you  serve  us, 

Till  we  serve  you :  but  when  you  have  our  roses, 
You  barely  leave  our  thorns  to  prick  ourselves, 
And  mock  us  with  our  bareness. 

Ber.  How  have  I  sworn? 

Dia.    'Tis  not  the  many  oaths,  that  make  the  truth ; 
But  th6  plain,  single  vow,  that  is  vowed  true. 
What  is  not  holy,  that  we  swear  not  by, 
But  take  the  Highest  to  witness.     Then  pray  you,  tell  me 
If  I  should  swear  by  Jove's  great  attributes, 
I  loved  you  dearly,  would  you  believe  my  oaths. 
When  I  did  love  you  ill  ?     This  has  no  holding. 
To  swear  by  Him  whom  I  protest  to  love, 
That  I  will  work  against  him.     Therefore,  your  oaths 
Are  words,  and  poor  conditions,  but  unsealed; 
At  least,  in  my  opinion. 

Ber.  Change  it,  change  it ; 

Be  not  so  holy-cruel.     Love  is  holy ; 
And  my  integrity  ne'er  knew  the  crafts 
That  you  do  charge  men  with.     Stand  no  more  off, 
But  give  thyself  unto  my  sick  desires, 
Wlio  then  recover:  say  thou  art  mine,  and  ever 
My  love,  as  it  begins,  shall  so  persever. 

Dia.    I  see  that  men  make  hopes,  in  such  a  war, 
That  we'll  forsake  ourselves.     Give  me  that  ring. 

Ber.    I'll  lend  it  thee,  my  dear,  but  have  no  power 
To  give  it  from  me. 

Dia.  Will  you  not,  my  lord? 

Ber.    It  is  an  honor  'longing  to  our  house, 
Bequeathed  down  from  many  ancestors; 
Which  were  the  greatest  obloquy  i'the  world 
In  me  to  lose. 

Dia.  Mine  honor's  such  a  ring. 

My  chastity's  the  jewel  of  our  iiousc. 
Bequeathed  down  from  many  ancestors; 
Which  were  the  greatest  obloquy  i'the  world 
In  me  to  lose.     Thus,  your  own  proper  wisdom 


694  A^Ll'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.      [Act  IV 

Brings  in  the  champion  honor  on  my  part, 
Against  your  vain  assault. 

Ber.  Here,  take  my  ring : 

My  house,  mine  honor,  yea,  my  life  be  thine, 
And  I'll  be  bid  by  thee. 

Dia.  When  midnight  comes,  knock  at  my  chamber  window  *, 
I'll  order  take,  my  mother  shall  not  hear. 
Now  will  I  charge  you  in  the  band  of  truth, 
AVhen  you  have  conquered  my  yet  maiden  bed, 
Kemain  there  but  an  hour,  nor  speak  to  me : 
My  reasons  are  most  strong ;  and  you  shall  know  them, 
W' hen  back  again  this  ring  shall  be  delivered : 
And  on  your  finger,  in  the  night,  I'll  put 
Another  ring ;  that  what  in  time  proceeds, 
May  token  to  the  future  our  past  deeds. 
Adieu  till  then ;  then,  fail  not.     You  have  won 
A  wife  of  me,  though  there  my  hope  be  done. 

Ber.    A  heaven  on  earth  I  have  won,  by  wooing  thee. 

\_Exit> 

Dia.    For  which  live  long  to  thank  both  Heaven  and  me ! 

You  may  so  in  the  end. 

My  mother  told  me  just  how  he  would  woo, 

As  if  she  sat  in  his  heart ;  she  says,  all  men 

Have  the  like  oaths :  he  had  sworn  to  marry  me 

W^hen  his  wife's  dead ;  therefore  I'll  lie  with  him 

W^hen  I  am  buried.     Since  Frenchmen  are  so  braid, 

Marry  that  will,  I'll  live  and  die  a  maid: 

Only  in  this  disguise  I  think't  no  sin 

To  cozen  him  that  would  unjustly  win.  [Exit. 


SCENE  III.      The  Florentine   Camp. 
Enter  the  two  French  Lords,  and  two  or  three  Soldiers. 

1  Lord.    You  have  not  given  him  his  mother's  letter  ? 

2  Lord.  I  have  delivered  it  an  hour  since.  There  is 
something  in't  that  stings  his  nature :  for,  on  the  reading 
it,  he  changed  almost  into  another  man. 

1  Lord.  He  has  much  worthy  blame  laid  upon  him,  for 
shaking  off  so  good  a  wife,  and  so  sweet  a  lady. 

2  Lord.  Especially  he  hath  incurred  the  everlasting  dis- 
pleasure of  the  king,  who  had  even  tuned  his  bounty  to  sing 
happiness  to  him.  I  will  tell  you  a  thing,  but  you  shall  let 
it  dwell  darkly  with  you. 

1  Lord.  When  you  have  spoken  it,  'tis  dead,  and  I  am 
the  grave  of  it. 


Act  IV.]      ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.  G05 

2  Lord.  He  hath  perverted  a  young  gentlewoman  here 
in  Florence,  of  a  most  chaste  renown;  and  this  nitrlit  he 
fleshes  his  will  in  the  spoil  of  her  honor;  he  hath  iri\on  her 
his  monumental  ring,  and  thinks  himself  made  in  the  un 
chaste  composition. 

1  Lord.  Now,  God  delay  our  rebellion ;  as  we  are  our- 
selves, what  things  are  we  ! 

2  Lord.  Merely  our  own  traitors ;  and  as  in  the  common 
course  of  all  treasons,  we  still  see  them  reveal  themselves,  till 
they  attain  to  their  abhorred  ends,  so  he  that  in  this  action 
contrives  against  his  own  nobility,  in  his  proper  stream 
o'erflows  himself. 

1  Lord.  Is  it  not  meant  damnable  in  us  to  be  trumpeters 
of  our  unlawful  intents  ?  We  shall  not  then  have  his  com- 
pany to-night. 

2  Lord.  Not  till  after  midnight ;  for  he  is  dieted  to  his 
hour. 

1  Lord.  That  approaches  apace  ;  I  would  gladly  have  him 
see  his  company  anatomized ;  that  he  might  take  a  measure 
of  his  own  judgment,  wherein  so  curiously  he  had  set  this 
counterfeit. 

2  Lord.  We  will  not  meddle  with  him  till  he  come ;  for 
his  presence  must  be  the  whip  of  the  other. 

1  Lord.    In  the  mean  time,  what  hear  you  of  these  wars  ? 

2  Loi'd.    I  hear  there  is  an  overture  of  peace. 

1  Lord.    Nay,  I  assure  you,  a  peace  concluded. 

2  Lord.  What  will  count  Rousillon  do  then  ?  Will  he 
travel  higher,  or  return  again  into  France  ? 

1  Lord.  I  perceive  by  this  demand,  you  are  not  altogether 
of  his  council. 

2  Lord.  Let  it  be  forbid,  sir  I  So  should  I  be  a  great 
deal  of  his  act. 

1  Lord.  Sir,  his  wife,  some  two  months  since,  fled  from 
his  house.  Her  pretence  is  a  pilgrimage  to  Saint  Jatpics  le 
Grand ;  which  holy  undertaking,  with  most  austere  sancti- 
mony, she  accomplished  ;  and,  there  residing,  the  tentlcrncss 
of  her  nature  became  as  a  prey  to  her  grief;  in  fine,  made 
a  groan  of  her  last  breath,  and  now  she  sings  in  heaven. 

2  Lord.    How  is  this  justified  ? 

1  Lord.  The  stronger  part  of  it  by  her  own  letters , 
which  makes  her  story  true,  even  to  the  point  of  her  death. 
Her  death  itself,  which  could  not  be  her  office  to  say,  is  come, 
was  faithfully  confirmed  by  the  rector  of  the  place. 

2  Lord.    Hath  the  count  all  this  intelligence? 

1  Lord.  Ay,  and  the  particular  confirmations,  ponit  from 
poii  t   to  the  full  arming  of  the  verity. 


69f5  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.      [Act  IV. 

2  Lord     I  am  heartily  sorry,  that  he'll  be  glad  of  this. 

1  Lord.  How  mightily,  sometimes,  we  make  us  comforts 
of  our  losses ! 

2  Lord.  And  how  mightily,  some  other  times,  we  drown 
our  gain  in  tears  !  The  great  dignity  that  his  valor  hath 
here  acquired  for  him,  shall  at  home  be  encountered  with  a 
shame  as  ample. 

1  Lord.  The  web  of  our  life  is  of  a  mingled  yarn,  good 
and  ill  together.  Our  virtues  would  be  proud,  if  our  faults 
whipped  them  not ;  and  our  crimes  would  despair,  if  they 
were  not  cherished  by  our  virtues. — 

Enter  a  Servant. 

How  now  ?  where's  your  master  ? 

Serv.  He  met  the  duke  in  the  street,  sir,  of  whom  ho 
hath  taken  a  solemn  leave :  his  lordship  will  next  morning 
for  France.  The  duke  hath  offered  him  letters  of  commen- 
dations to  the  king. 

2  Lord.  They  shall  be  no  more  than  needful  there,  if 
they  were  more  than  they  can  commend. 

Enter  Bertram. 

1  Lord.  They  cannot  be  too  sweet  for  the  king's  tartness. 
Here's  his  lordship  now.  How  now,  my  lord,  is't  not  after 
midnight  ? 

Ber.  I  have  to-night  despatched  sixteen  businesses,  a 
month's  length  apiece,  by  an  abstract  of  success.  I  have 
congeed  Avith  the  duke,  done  my  adieu  with  his  nearest ; 
buried  a  wife,  mourned  for  her ;  writ  to  my  lady  mother  I 
am  returning ;  entertained  my  convoy ;  and,  between  these 
main  parcels  of  despatch,  effected  many  nicer  needs ;  the 
last  was  the  greatest,  but  that  I  have  not  ended  yet. 

'  2  Lord.  If  the  business  be  of  any  difficulty,  and  this 
morning  your  departure  hence,  it  requires  haste  of  your 
lordship. 

Ber.  I  mean  the  business  is  not  ended,  as  fearing  to  hear 
of  it  hereafter.     But  shall  we  have  this  dialogue  betAveen  the 

fool  and  the  soldier  1 Come,  bring  forth  this  counterfeit 

module ;  he  has  deceived  me,  like  a  double-meaning  prophe- 
sier. 

2  Lord.  Bring  him  forth.  \_Exeunt  Soldiers.]  He  has 
sat  in  the  stocks  all  night,  poor  gallant  knave. 

Ber.  No  matter ;  his  heels  have  deserved  it,  in  usurping 
his  spurs  so  long.     How  does  he  carry  himself? 

1  Lord.  I  have  told  your  lordship  alre?dy;  the  stocks 
carry  him.    But  to  answer  you  as  you  would  be  understood  ; 


ilcT  IV.j   ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.  697 

be  weeps  like  a  wench  that  had  shed  her  milk:  he  hath  con- 
fessed himself  to  Morgan,  whom  he  supposes  to  be  a  friar, 
from  the  time  of  his  remembrance,  to  this  very  instant  dis 
aster  of  his  setting  i'the  stocks.  And  what  think  you  he 
hath  confessed  ? 

Ber.    Nothing  of  me,  has  he? 

_  1  Lord.  His  confession  is  taken,  and  it  shall  be  read  to 
nis  face :  if  your  lordship  be  in't,  as  I  believe  you  are,  you 
must  have  the  patience  to  hear  it. 

He-enter  Soldiers  ivitli  Parolles. 

Ber.  A  plague  upon  him  !  Muffled  !  he  can  say  nothing 
of  me  ;  hush  !  hush  ! 

\  Lord.    Hoodman  comes! — Porto  tartarossa. 

1  Sold.  He  calls  for  the  tortures.  What  will  you  say 
without  'em  ? 

Par.  I  will  confess  what  I  know  without  constraint ;  if 
ye  pinch  me  like  a  pasty,  I  can  say  no  more. 

1  Sold.   Bosko  chimurcho. 

2  Lord.    Bohlibindo  chicurmurco. 

1  Sold.  You  are  a  merciful  general.  —  Our  general  bids 
you  to  answer  to  what  I  shall  ask  you  out  of  a  note. 

Par.    And  truly,  as  I  hope  to  live. 

1  Sold.  First  demand  of  him  hotv  many  horse  the  duke 
is  strong  .-     What  say  you  to  that  ? 

Par.  Five  or  six  thousand ;  but  very  weak  and  imservice- 
able.  The  troops  are  all  scattered,  and  the  commanders 
very  poor  rogues,  upon  my  reputation  and  credit,  as  1  hope 
to  live. 

1  Sold.    Shall  I  set  down  your  answer  so? 

Par.  Do ;  I'll  take  the  sacrament  on't,  how  and  which 
way  you  will. 

Ber.  All's  one  to  him.    What  a  past-saving  slave  is  this ! 

1  Lord.  You  are  deceived,  my  lord ;  tliis  is  monsieur 
Parolles,  the  gallant  militarist,  (that  was  his  own  plirase,) 
that  had  the  whole  theorick  of  war  in  the  knot  of  his  scarf, 
and  the  practice  in  the  chape  of  his  dagger. 

2  Lord.  I  will  never  trust  a  man  again  for  keeping  his 
sword  clean  ;  nor  believe  he  can  liave  every  thing  in  him,  by 
wearing  his  apparel  neatly. 

1  Sold.    Well,  that's  set  down. 

Par     Five  or  six  thousand   horse,  I  said. —I  will   say 
true ;  or  thereabouts,  set  down,  for  I'll  speak  truth. 
1  Lord.    He's  very  near  the  truth  in  this. 
Ber.    But  I  con  him  no  thanks  for't,  in  the  nature  he 

delivers  it. 

3i 


698  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.      [Act  17 

Par.    Poor  rogues,  I  pray  you,  say. 

1  Sold.    Well,  that's  set  down. 

Par  I  humbly  thank  you,  sir :  a  truth's  a  truth,  the 
rogues  are  marvellous  poor. 

1  Sold.  Demand  of  him,  of  what  strength  they  are  afoot. 
What  say  you  to  that  ? 

Par.  By  my  troth,  sir,  if  I  were  to  live  this  present  hour, 
I  will  tell  true.  Let  me  see :  Spurio  a  hundred  and  fifty, 
Sebastian  so  many,  Corambus  so  many,  Jaques  so  many ; 
Guiltian,  Cosmo,  Lodowick,  and  Gratii,  two  hundred  fifty 
each ;  mine  own  company,  Chitopher,  Vaumond,  Bentii, 
two  hundred  and  fifty  each ;  so  that  the  muster-file,  rotten 
and  sound,  upon  my  life,  amounts  not  to  fifteen  thousand 
poll ;  half  of  which  dare  not  shake  the  snow  from  off  their 
cassocks,  lest  they  shake  themselves  to  pieces. 

Ber.    What  shall  be  done  to  him  ? 

1  Lord.  Nothing,  but  let  him  have  thanks.  Demand  of 
him  my  conditions,  and  what  credit  I  have  with  the  duke. 

1  Sold.  Well,  that's  set  down.  You  shall  demand  of  him, 
whether  one  captain  Dumain  be  i'the  camp.,  a  Frenchman  ; 
what  his  reputation  is  with  the  duke,  what  his  valor,  honesty, 
and  expertness  m  wars ;  or  whether  he  thinks  it  were  not 
possible,  tvith  well-iveighing  sums  of  gold,  to  corrupt  him  to 
a  revolt.     What  say  you  to  this  ?    What  do  you  know  of  it  ? 

Par.  I  beseech  you,  let  me  answer  to  the  particular  of 
the  interrogatories.     Demand  them  singly. 

1  Sold.    Do  you  know  this  captain  Dumain  ? 

Par.  I  know  him :  he  was  a  botcher's  'prentice  in  Paris, 
from  whence  he  was  whipped  for  getting  the  sheriiF's  fool 
with  child ;  a  dumb  innocent,  that  could  not  say  him  nay. 
[Dumain  lifts  up  his  hand  in  anger. 

Ber.  Nay,  by  your  leave,  hold  your  hands  ;  though  I  know 
his  brains  are  forfeit  to  the  next  tile  that  falls. 

1  Sold.  Well,  is  this  captain  in  the  duke  of  Florence's 
camp? 

Par.    Upon  my  knowledge,  he  is,  and  lousy. 

1  Lord.  Nay,  look  not  so  upon  me ;  we  shall  hear  of  your 
lordship  anon. 

1  Sold.    W^hat  is  his  reputation  with  the  duke  ? 

Par.  The  duke  knows  him  for  no  other  but  a  poor  officer 
of  mine  ;  and  writ  to  me,  this  other  day,  to  turn  him  out 
o'the  band.     I  think  I  have  his  letter  in  my  pocket. 

1  Sold.    Marry,  we'll  search. 

Par.  In  good  sadness,  I  do  not  know ;  either  it  is  there, 
or  it  is  upon  a  file,  with  the  duke's  other  letters,  in  my  tent. 


Act  IV.]     ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL  699 

1  Sold.  Here  'tis ;  here's  a  paper !  Shall  I  read  it  to 
you  ? 

Par.    I  do  not  know  if  it  be  it,  or  no. 

£er.    Our  interpreter  does  it  well. 

1  Lord.    Excellently. 

1  Sold.    Dian.      The  count's  a  fool,  and  full  of  gold, — 

Par.  That  is  not  the  duke's  letter,  sir ;  that  is  an  adver 
tisement  to  a  proper  maid  in  Florence,  one  Diana,  to  take 
heed  of  the  allurement  of  one  count  Rousillon,  a  foolish, 
idle  boy,  but  for  all  that  very  ruttish.  I  pray  you,  sir,  put 
it  up  again. 

1  Sold.    Nay,  I'll  read  it  first,  by  your  favor. 

Par.  My  meaning  in't,  I  protest,  was  very  honest  in  the 
behalf  of  the  maid ;  for  I  knew  the  young  count  to  be  a  dan- 
gerous and  lascivious  boy  ;  who  is  a  whale  to  virginity,  and 
devours  up  all  the  fry  it  finds. 

Ber   Damnable,  both  sides  rogue  ! 

1  Sold.     When  he  swears  oaths,  bid  him  drop  gold  and 

take  it; 
After  he  scores,  he  never  pays  the  score  : 
Half  won,  is  match  well  made  ;  match,  and  well  make  it : 

He  ne'er  pays  after-debts ;  take  ^'t  before; 
And  say,  a  soldier,  Dian,  told  thee  this. 
Men  are  to  7nell  with,  boys  are  not  to  kiss. 
For  count  of  this,  the  count's  a  fool,  I  know  it, 
Who  pays  before,  but  not  when  he  does  owe  it. 
Thine,  as  he  vowed  to  thee  in  thine  ear, 

Parolles. 

Ber.  He  shall  be  whipped  through  the  army  with  this 
rhyme  in  his  forehead. 

2  Lord.  This  i»  your  devoted  friend,  sir,  the  manifold  lin- 
guist, and  the  armipotent  soldier. 

Ber.  I  could  endure  anything  before  but  a  cat,  and  now 
he's  a  cat  to  me. 

1  Sold.  I  perceive,  sir,  by  the  general's  looks,  wc  shall 
be  fain  to  hang  you.  r    •  j  ♦ 

Par.  My  life,  sir,  in  any  case:  not  that  1  am  atraul  to 
die ;  but  that,  my  offences  being  many,  I  would  repent  out 
the  remainder  of  nature ;  let  me  live,  sir,  ni  a  dungeon,  i 
the  stocks,  or  any  where,  so  I  may  live. 

1  Sold.  We'll  see  what  may  be  done,  so  you  confess 
freely;  therefore,  once  more  to  this  captain  Duniain  :  lou 
have  answered  to  his  reput?tion  with  the  duke,  and  to  his 
valor;  what  is  his  honesty? 

Par.    He  will  steal,  sir,  an  egg  out  of  a  clcister  ;  for  rapes 


700  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.      [Act  IV. 

and  ravishments  he  parallels  Nessus.  lie  professes  not 
keeping  of  oaths  ;  in  breaking  them,  he  is  stronger  than 
Hercules.  He  will  lie,  sir,  with  such  volubility,  that  you 
would  think  truth  were  a  fool.  Drunkenness  is  his  best  vir- 
tue ;  for  he  will  be  swine-drunk  ;  and  in  his  sleep  he  does 
little  harm,  save  to  his  bed-clothes  about  him ;  but  they 
know  his  conditions,  and  lay  him  in  straw.  I  have  but  little 
more  to  say,  sir,  of  his  honesty  :  he  has  every  thing  that  an 
honest  man  should  not  have ;  what  an  honest  man  should 
have,  he  has  nothing. 

1  Lord.    I  begin  to  love  him  for  this. 

Ber.  For  this  description  of  thine  honesty  ?  A  pox  upon 
him  for  me ;  he  is  more  and  more  a  cat, 

1  Sold.    What  say  you  to  his  expertness  in  war  ? 

Par.  Faith,  sir,  he  has  led  the  drum  before  the  English 
tragedians,  —  to  belie  him,  I  will  not,  —  and  more  of  his 
soldiership  I  know  not ;  except  in  that  country,  he  had  the 
honor  to  be  the  officer  at  a  place  there  called  Mile  End,  to 
instruct  for  the  doubling  of  files.  I  would  do  the  man  what 
honor  I  can,  but  of  this  I  am  not  certain. 

1  Lord.  He  hath  out-villained  villany  so  far,  that  the 
rarity  redeems  him. 

Ber.    A  pox  on  him !  he's  a  cat  still. 

1  Sold.  His  qualities  being  at  this  poor  price,  I  need  not 
ask  you,  if  gold  will  corrupt  him  to  revolt. 

Par.  Sir,  for  a  quart  d'ecu  he  will  sell  the  fee-simple  of 
his  salvation,  the  inheritance  of  it ;  and  cut  the  entail  from 
all  remainders,  and  a  perpetual  succession  for  it  perpetually. 

1  Sold.    What's  his  brother,  the  other  captain  Dumain  ? 

2  Lord.    Why  does  he  ask  him  of  me  ? 
1  Sold.    What's  he  ? 

Par.  Even  a  crow  of  the  same  nest ;  not  altogether  so 
great  as  the  first  in  goodness,  but  greater  a  great  deal  in 
evil.  He  excels  his  brother  for  a  coward,  yet  his  brother  is 
reputed  one  of  the  best  that  is.  In  a  retreat  he  outruns 
any  lackey  ;  marry,  in  coming  on  he  has  the  cramp. 

1  Sold.  If  your  life  be  saved,  will  you  undertake  to  betray 
the  Florentine  ? 

Par.    Ay,  and  the  captain  of  his  horse,  Count  Rousillon. 

1  Sold.  I'll  whisper  with  the  general,  and  know  his  plea- 
sure. 

Par.  I'll  no  more  drumming ;  a  plague  of  all  drums  ! 
Only  to  seem  to  deserve  well,  and  to  beguile  the  supposition 
of  that  lascivious  young  boy  the  count,  have  I  run  into  this 
danger.  Yet  who  would  have  suspected  an  ambush  where 
I  was  taken  ?  ,  [_Aside. 


Act  TV.]     ALL'S  WELL  THAT  EXDS  WELL.  701 

1  Sold.  There  is  no  remely,  sir,  but  you  must  die.  The 
general  says,  you,  that  have  so  traitorously  discovered  the 
secrets  of  your  army,  and  made  such  pestiferous  reports  of 
men  very  nobly  held,  can  serve  the  world  for  no  honest  use  • 
therefore  you  must  die.    Come,  headsmen,  off  with  his  head 

Par.    0  Lord,  sir ;  let  me  live,  or  let  me  see  my  death  ! 

1  Sold.  That  shall  you,  and  take  your  leave  of  all  your 
friends.  [Unmuffling  him. 
So,  look  about  you :  know  you  any  here  ? 

Ber.    Good  morrow,  noble  captain. 

2  Lord.    God  bless  you,  captain  Parolles. 

1  Lord.    God  save  you,  noble  captain. 

2  Lord.  Captain,  what  greeting  will  you  to  my  lord  La 
feu  ?  I  am  for  France. 

1  Lord.  Good  captain,  will  you  give  me  a  copy  of  the 
sonnet  you  writ  to  Diana  in  behalf  of  the  count  Rousillon  ? 
An  I  were  not  a  very  coward,  I'd  compel  it  of  you;  but  fare 
you  well.  \_Exeunt  Bertram,  Lords,  ^c. 

1  Sold.  You  are  undone,  Captain ;  all  but  your  scarf,  that 
has  a  knot  on't  yet. 

Par.    Who  cannot  be  crushed  with  a  plot  ? 

1  Sold.  If  you  could  find  out  a  country  where  but  women 
were  that  had  received  so  much  shame,  you  might  begin  an 
impudent  nation.  Fare  you  well,  sir ;  I  am  for  France  too ; 
we  shall  speak  of  you  there.  [^Exit. 

Par.    Yet  I  am  thankful :  if  my  heart  were  great, 
'Twould  burst  at  this.     Captain  I'll  be  no  more; 
But  I  will  eat  and  drink,  and  sleep  as  soft 
As  captain  shall:  simply  the  thing  I  am 
Shall  make  me  live.     Who  knows  himself  a  braggart, 
Let  him  fear  this;  for  it  will  come  to  pass. 
That  every  braggart  shall  be  found  an  ass. 
Rust,  sword !  cool,  blushes  !  and,  Parolles,  live  _ 
Safest  in  shame !     Being  fooled,  by  foolery  thrive ! 
There's  place,  and  means,  for  every  man  alive. 
I'll  after  them.  l^^^^- 

SCENE  IV.     Florence.     A  Room  in  tJie  Widow's  IToiise. 
Enter  Helena,  Widow,  and  Diana. 

Eel.    That  you  may  well  perceive  I  have  not  wronge<3 
you, 
One  of  the  greatest  in  the  Christian  world 
Shall  be  my  surety;  'fore  whose  throne  'tis  needful, 
Ere  I  can  perfect  mine  intents,  to  kneel. 
3i* 


702  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.     [Act  IV 

Tinic  was.   I  did  him  a  desired  office, 

Dear  alincst  as  his  life;  which  gratitude 

Through  flinty  Tartar's  bosom  would  peep  forth, 

And  answer,  thanks.     I  duly  am  informed 

His  grace  is  at  Marseilles;  to  which  place 

We  have  convenient  convoy.     You  must  know, 

I  am  supposed  dead :  the  army  breaking. 

My  husband  hies  him  home  ;  where,   Heaven  aiding, 

And  by  the  leave  of  my  good  lord  the  king, 

We'll  be,  before  our  welcome. 

Wid.  Gentle  madam, 

You  never  had  a  servant  to  whose  trust 
Your  business  was  more  welcome. 

Ifel.  Nor  you,  mistress, 

Ever  a  friend  whose  thoughts  more  truly  labor 
To  recompense  your  love.     Doubt  not  but  Heaven 
Hath  brought  me  up  to  be  your  daughter's  dower. 
As  it  hath  fated  her  to  be  my  motive 
And  helper  to  a  husband.     But,  0  strange  men ! 
That  can  such  sweet  use  make  of  what  they  bate, 
When  saucy  trusting  of  the  cozened  thoughts 
Defiles  the  pitchy  night !     So  lust  doth  play 
With  what  it  loathes,  for  that  Avhich  is  away : 

But  more  of  this  hereafter. You,  Diana, 

Under  my  poor  instructions,  yet  must  suffer 
Something  in  my  behalf. 

Dia.  Let  death  and  honesty 

Go  with  your  impositions,  I  am  yours. 
Upon  your  will  to  suffer. 

IlcL  Yet,  I  pray  you, 

But  with  the  word,  the  time  will  bring  on  summer. 

When  briers  shall  have  leaves  as  well  as  thorns. 

And  be  as  sweet  as  sharp.     We  must  away ; 

Our  wagon  is  prepared,  and  time  revives  us. 

All's  ivell  that  ends  well:  still  the  fine's  the  crown; 

Whate'er  the  course,  the  end  is  the  renown.        [^Uxeunt. 

SCENE  V,    Rousillon.    A  Room  in  tlie  Countess's  Palace. 
Enter  Countess,  Lafeu,  and  Clown. 

Laf.  No,  no,  no,  your  son  was  misled  with  a  snipt-tafTcta 
fellow  there ;  whose  villanous  saffron  would  have  made  all 
the  unbaked  and  doughy  youth  of  a  nation  in  his  color  :  your 
(laugh tcv-in-law  had  been  alive  at  this  hour ;  and  your  sou 
here  at  home,  more  advanced  by  the  king,  than  by  that  reil- 
tailed  humble-bee  I  speak  of. 


Act  IY.]     ALL'S  ^^ELL  THAT  ENDS  V^Y.LL.  703 

Count.  I  would  I  had  not  known  him  !  It  was  the  death 
of  the  most  virtuous  gentlewoman,  that  ever  nature  had 
praise  for  creating :  if  she  had  partaken  of  my  tiesh,  and 
cost  me  the  dearest  groans  of  a  mother,  I  could  not  have 
owed  her  a  more  rooted  love. 

Laf.  'Twas  a  good  lady,  'twas  a  good  lady  :  we  may 
pick  a  thousand  salads,  ere  we  light  on  such  another  herb. 

CIo.  Indeed,  sir,  she  was  the  sweet-marjorum  of  the  salad, 
or  rather  the  herb  of  grace. 

Laf.  They  are  not  salad-herbs,  you  knave  ;  they  are  noso- 
herbs. 

Clo.  I  am  no  great  Nebudchadnezzar,  sir;  I  have  not 
much  skill  in  grass. 

Laf.  Whether  dost  thou  profess  thyself;  a  knave,  or  a 
fool  ? 

Clo.  A  fool,  sir,  at  a  woman's  service,  and  a  knave  at  a 
man's. 

Laf.    Your  distinction  ? 

Clo.  I  would  cozen  the  man  of  his  wife,  and  do  his 
service. 

Laf    So  you  were  a  knave  at  his  service,  indeed. 

Clo.  And  I  would  give  his  wife  my  bawble,  sir,  to  do  her 
service. 

Laf  I  will  subscribe  for  thee ;  thou  art  both  knave  and 
fool. 

Clo.   At  your  service. 

Laf.    No,  no,  no. 

Clo.  Why,  sir,  if  I  cannot  serve  you,  I  can  serve  as  great 
a  prince  as  you  are. 

Laf.    Who's  that  ?     A  Frenchman  ? 

Clo.  Faith,  sir,  he  has  an  English  name ;  but  his  phis- 
nomy  is  more  hotter  in  France,  than  there. 

Laf.    What  prince  is  that  ? 

Clo.  The  black  prince,  sir ;  alias,  the  prince  of  darkness; 
alias,  the  devil. 

Laf.  Hold  thee,  there's  my  purse.  I  give  tliee  not  this 
to  suggest  thee  from  thy  master  thou  talkcst  of;  serve  him 
still. 

Clo.  I  am  a  woodland  fellow,  sir,  that  always  loved  a 
great  fire ;  and  the  master  I  speak  of,  ever  kc-ps  a  good 
fire.  But,  sure,  he  is  the  prince  of  the  world,  let  his  no- 
bility remain  in  his  court.  I  am  for  the  house  with  the  nar 
row  gate,  which  I  take  to  be  too  little  for  pomp  to  enter: 
some,  tliat  humble  themselves,  may ;  but  the  many  wdl  bp 
too  chill  and  tender;  and  they'll  be  f-r  the  flo\\ery  way,  that 
leads  to  the  broad  gate,  and  the  great  fire. 


704  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.     [Act  IV 

Laf.  Go  til  J  ways ;  I  begin  to  be  a-weary  of  thee  :  and 
T  toll  thee  so  before,  because  I  woiihl  not  fall  out  with  thee. 
Go  thy  ways ;  let  nay  horses  be  well  looked  to,  without  any 
tricks. 

Clo.  K  I  put  any  tricks  upon  'em,  sir,  they  shall  be  jades' 
tricks ;  which  are  their  own  right  by  the  law  of  nature. 

[Exit. 

Laf.    A  shrewd  knave  and  an  unhappy. 

Count.  So  he  is.  My  lord,  that's  gone,  made  himself 
much  sport  out  of  him  :  by  his  authority  he  remains  here, 
which  he  thinks  is  a  patent  for  his  sauciness ;  and,  indeed, 
he  has  no  pace,  but  runs  where  he  will. 

Laf.  I  like  him  well ;  'tis  not  amiss :  and  I  was  about  to 
tell  you,  since  I  heard  of  the  good  lady's  dea,th,  and  that 
my  lord,  yoiu'  son,  was  upon  his  return  home,  I  moved  the 
king,  my  master,  to  speak  in  the  behalf  of  my  daughter ; 
which,  in  the  minority  of  them  both,  his  majesty,  out  of  a 
self-gracious  remembrance,  did  first  propose.  His  highness 
hath  promised  me  to  do  it ;  and,  to  stop  up  the  displeasure 
he  hath  conceived  against  your  son,  there  is  no  fitter  matter. 
How  does  your  ladyship  like  it? 

Count.  With  very  much  content,  my  lord,  and  I  wish  it 
happily  effected. 

Z/ttf.  His  highness  comes  post  from  Marseilles,  of  as  able 
body  as  when  he  numbered  thirty ;  he  will  be  here  to-mor- 
row, or  I  am  deceived  by  him  that  in  such  intelligence  hath 
seldom  failed. 

Count.  It  rejoices  me,  that  I  hope  I  shall  see  him  ere  I 
die.  I  have  letters  that  my  son  will  be  here  to-night :  I 
shall  beseech  your  lordship  to  remain  with  me  till  they  meet 
together. 

Laf.  Madam,  I  was  thinking,  with  what  manners  I  might 
safely  be  admitted. 

Count.    You  need  but  plead  your  honorable  privilege. 

Laf.  Lady,  of  that  I  have  made  a  bold  charter ;  but,  I 
thank  my  God,  it  holds  yet. 

Re-enter  Clown. 

Clo.  0  madam,  yonder's  my  lord,  your  son,  with  a  patch 
of  velvet  on's  face  ;  whether  there  be  a  scar  under  it,  or  no, 
the  velvet  knows  ;  but  'tis  a  goodly  patch  of  velvet :  his  left 
cheek  is  a  cheek  of  two  pile  and  a  half,  but  his  right  cheek 
is  worn  bare. 

Laf.  A  scar  nobly  got,  or  a  noble  scar,  is  a  good  livery 
of  honor ;  so,  belike,  is  that. 

Clo.    But  it  is  your  carbonadoed  face. 


Act  v.]        ALL'S  ^YELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.  705 

Laf.  Let  us  go  see  your  son,  I  pray  you ;  I  lon<T  to  mlk 
with  the  young,  noble  soklier. 

Clo.  'Faith,  there's  a  dozen  of  'em,  with  delicate,  fine 
hats,  and  most  coui-teous  featliers,  which  bow  the  head,  and 
nod  at  every  man.  lExeunL 


ACT    V. 

SCENE  I.     Marseilles.     A  Street. 
Enter  Helena,  Widow,  and  Diana,  with  two  Attendanta 

Sel.    But  this  exceeding  posting,  day  and  night, 
Must  wear  your  spirits  low.     We  cannot  help  it ; 
But,  since  you  have  made  the  days  and  nights  as  one, 
To  wear  your  gentle  limbs  in  my  affairs. 
Be  bold,  you  do  so  grow  in  my  requital. 
As  nothing  can  unroot  you.     In  happy  time ; 

Enter  a  gentle  Astringer. 

This  man  may  help  me  to  his  majesty's  ear, 

If  he  would  spend  his  power. —  God  save  you,  sir. 

G-ent.    And  you. 

Hel.    Sir,  I  have  seen  you  in  the  court  of  France. 

G-ent.    I  have  been  sometimes  there. 

Hel.    I  do  presume,  sir,  that  you  are  not  fallen 
From  the  report  that  goes  upon  your  goodness ; 
And  therefore,  goaded  with  most  sharp  occasions. 
Which  lay  nice  manners  by,  I  put  to  you 
The  use  of  your  own  virtues,  for  the  Avhieli 
I  shall  continue  thankful. 

G-ent.  What's  your  will? 

Hel.    That  it  will  please  you 
To  give  this  poor  petition  to  the  king; 
And  aid  me  with  that  store  of  power  you  have 
To  come  into  his  presence. 

Gent.    The  king's  not  here. 

ffel  Not  here,  sir? 

Gent.  ^'«t'  '"^^^^^ 

He  hence  removed  last  night,  and  with  more  haste 
Than  is  his  use. 

Wid.  Lord,  how  we  lose  our  pains! 

Hel.    AW 8  well  that  ends  well,  yet; 
.  Vol.  L— 45 


706  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.       [Act  ^ 

Thou<ih  time  seems  so  adverse,  and  means  unfit. — 
I  do  beseech  you,  whither  is  he  gone  ? 

Gent.    Marry,  as  I  take  it,  to  Rousillon; 
Whither  I  am  going. 

Jlel.  I  do  beseech  you,  sir, 

Since  you  are  like  to  see  the  king  before  me, 
Commend  the  paper  to  his  gracious  hand ; 
Which,  I  presume,  shall  render  you  no  blame, 
But  rather  make  you  thank  your  pains  for  it. 
I  will  come  after  you,  with  what  good  speed 
Our  means  will  make  us  means. 

Gent.  This  I'll  do  for  you. 

JleL    And  you  shall  find  yourself  to  be  well  thanked, 

White'er  falls  more. We  must  to  horse  again ; — 

Go,  go,  provide.  [^Uxeunt, 

SCENE  II.    Rousillon.    The  inner  Court  of  the  Countess's 

Palace. 

Enter  Clown  and  Parolles. 

Par.  Good  monsieur  Lavatch,  give  my  lord  Lafeu  this 
letter.  I  have  ere  now,  sir,  been  better  known  to  you,  when 
I  have  held  familiarity  with  fresher  clothes ;  but  I  am  now, 
sir,  muddied  in  fortune's  mood,  and  smell  somewhat  strong 
of  her  strong  displeasure. 

Clo.  Truly,  fortune's  displeasure  is  but  sluttish,  if  it 
smell  so  strong  as  thou  speakest  of:  I  will  henceforth  eat 
no  fish  of  fortune's  buttering.     Pr'ythee,  alloAV  the  wind. 

Par.  Nay,  you  need  not  stop  your  nose,  sir ;  I  spake  but 
by  a  metaphor. 

Clo.  Indeed,  sir,  if  your  metaphor  stink,  I  will  stop  my 
nose ;  or  against  any  man's  metaphor.  Pr'ythee,  get  thee 
further. 

Par.    Pray  you,  sir,  deliver  me  this  paper. 

Clo.  Fob,  pr'ythee,  stand  away.  A  paper  from  fortune's 
close-stool  to  give  to  a  nobleman !  Look,  here  he  cornea 
himself. 

Enter  Lafeu. 

Here  is  a  pur  of  fortune's,  sir,  or  of  fortune's  cat,  (but  not 
a  musk-cat,)  that  has  fallen  into  the  unclean  fish-pond  of 
her  displeasure,  and,  as  he  says,  is  muddied  withal.  Pray 
you,  sir,  use  the  carp  as  you  may ;  for  he  looks  like  a  poor, 
decayed,  ingenious,  foolish,  rascally  knave.  I  do  pity  his 
distress  in  my  smiles  of  comfort,  and  leave  him  to  your 
lordshij-  \Exit  Clown.' 


ActT.]       ALL'S  well  that  ends  ^YELL.  707 

Par.  My  lord,  I  am  a  man  whom  fortune  hath  cruelly 
sera  tched. 

Laf.  And  what  would  you  have  me  to  do  ?  'Tis  too  late 
to  pare  her  nails  now.  Wherein  have  you  played  the  knave 
with  fortune,  that  she  should  scratch  you,  who  of  herself  is 
a  good  lady,  and  would  not  have  knaves  thrive  long  under 
her  ?  There's  a  quart  d'ecu  for  you.  Let  the  justices  make 
you  and  fortune  friends ;  I  am  for  other  business, 

Par.    I  beseech  your  honor  to  hear  me  one  single  word, 

Laf.  You  beg  a  single  penny  more  :  come,  you  shall  ha't. 
Save  your  word. 

Par.    My  name,  my  good  lord,  is  Parolles. 

Laf.  You  beg  more  than  one  word  then. — Cox'  my  pas- 
sion !  give  me  your  hand.  —  How  does  your  drum  ? 

Par.    0  my  good  lord,  you  were  the  first  that  found  me. 

Laf.    Was  I,  in  sooth  ?  and  I  was  the  first  that  lost  thee. 

Par.  It  lies  in  you,  my  lord,  to  bring  me  in  some  grace, 
for  you  did  bring  me  out. 

Laf.  Out  upon  thee,  knave  !  dost  thou  put  upon  me  at 
once  both  the  oiSce  of  God  and  the  devil  ?  One  brings  thee 
in  grace,  and  the  other  brings  thee  out.    \_Trunipets  sound.] 

The  king's  coming,  I  know  by  his  trumpets. Sirrah, 

inquire  further  after  me:  I  had  talk  of  you  last  night: 
though  you  are  a  fool  and  a  knave,  you  shall  eat ;  go  to, 
follow. 

Par.    I  praise  God  for  you.  ^Exeunt, 

SCENE  III.      The  same.     A  Room  in  the  Countess'a 
Palace.     Flourish. 

Enter  King,  Countess,  Lafeu,  Lords,  Gentlemen, 
Guards,  ^e. 

King.    We  lost  a  jewel  of  her ;  and  our  esteem 
Was  made  much  poorer  by  it:  but  your  son, 
As  mad  in  folly,  lacked  the  sense  to  know 
Her  estimation  home. 

Count.  'Tis  past,  my  liege: 

And  I  beseech  your  majesty  to  make  it 
Natural  rebellion,  done  i'thc  blade  of  youth  ; 
When  oil  and  fire,  too  strong  for  reason's  force, 
O'erbears  it,  and  burns  on. 

Kinq.  ^ly  honored  lady, 

I  have  fcrgiven  and  forgotten  all; 
Though  my  revenges  were  high  bent  upon  hira. 
And  watched  the  time  to  ghoot. 


70S  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.      [Act  V 

Laf.  This  I  must  say, 

But  *fii-st  I  beg  my  pardon,  —  The  young  lord 
Did  to  his  majesty,  his  mother,  and  his  lady, 
Offence  of  mighty  note ;  but  to  himself 
The  greatest  wrong  of  all.     He  lost  a  wife 
Whose  beauty  did  astonish  the  survey 
Of  richest  eyes ;  whose  words  all  ears  took  captive ; 
Whose  dear  perfection,  hearts  that  scorned  to  serve, 
Humbly  called  mistress. 

King.  Praising  what  is  lost. 

Makes  the  remembrance  dear. Well,  call  him  hither: 

We  are  reconciled,  and  the  first  view  shall  kill 
All  repetition. — Let  him  not  ask  our  pardon: 
The  nature  of  his  great  offence  is  dead. 
And  deeper  than  oblivion  do  we  bury 
The  incensing  relics  of  it.     Let  him  approach, 
A  stranger,  no  offender ;  and  inform  him, 
So  'tis  our  will  he  should. 

Crent.  I  shall,  my  liege. 

\_Exit  Gentleman. 

King.    What    says   he    to    your    daughter  ?     Have    you 
spoke? 

Laf.   All  that  he  is  hath  reference  to  your  highness. 

King     Then   shall  we   have  a  match.      I   have   letters 
sent  me. 
That  set  him  high  in  fame. 

Enter  Bertram. 

Laf.  He  looks  well  on't. 

King.    I  am  not  a  day  of  season. 
For  thou  mayst  see  a  sunshine  and  a  hail 
In  me  at  once ;  but  to  the  brightest  beams 
Distracted  clouds  give  way ;  so  stand  thou  forth, 
The  time  is  fair  again. 

Ber.  My  high-repented  blames 

Dear  sovereign,  pardon  to  me. 

King.  All  is  whole ; 

Not  one  word  more  of  the  consumed  time. 
Let's  take  the  instant  by  the  forward  top ; 
For  we  are  old,  and  on  our  quick'st  decrees 
The  inaudible  and  noiseless  foot  of  time 
Steals  ere  we  can  affect  them.     You  remember 
The  daughter  of  this  lord  ? 

Ber.    Admirably,  my  liege  .   at  first 
T  stuck  my  choice  upon  her,  ere  my  heart 
Durst  make  too  bold  a  herald  of  my  tongue; 


Act  v.]       all  S  WELL  THAT  END8  WELL.  709 

Where  the  impression  of  mine  eye  infixing, 
Contempt  his  scornful  perspective  did  lend  me, 
Which  warped  the  line  of  every  other  favor; 
Scorned  a  fair  color,  or  expressed  it  stolen; 
Extended  or  contracted  all  proportions 
To  a  most  hideous  object.     Thence  it  came, 
That  she,  whom  all  men  praised,  and  whom  mysjlf, 
Since  I  have  lost,  have  loved,  was  in  mine  eye 
The  dust  that  did  ofifend  it. 

King.  Well  excused: 

That  thou  didst  love  her,  strikes  some  scores  away 
From  the  great  compt.     But  love,  that  comes  too  late, 
Like  a  remorseful  pardon  slowly  carried, 
To  the  great  sender  turns  a  sour  ofi'ence. 
Crying,  that's  good  that's  gone.     Our  rash  faults 
Make  trivial  price  of  serious  things  we  have, 
Not  knowing  them,  until  we  know  their  grave. 
Oft  our  displeasures,  to  ourselves  unjust, 
Destroy  our  friends,  and  after  weep  their  dust. 
Our  own  love  waking  cries  to  see  what's  done, 
While  shameful  hate  sleeps  out  the  afternoon. 
Be  this  sweet  Helen's  knell,  and  now  forget  her. 
Send  forth  your  amorous  token  for  fair  Maudlin ; 
The  main  consents  are  had ;  and  here  we'll  stay 
To  see  our  widower's  second  marriage-day. 

Count.  Which  better  than  the  first,  0  dear  Heaven,  blesa ' 
Or,  ere  they  meet,  in  me,  0  nature,  cease ! 

Laf.    Come  on,  ray  son,  in  whom  my  house's  name 
Must  be  digested,  give  a  favor  from  you. 
To  sparkle  in  the  spirits  of  my  daughter. 
That  she  may  quickly  come.  —  By  my  old  beard. 
And  every  hair  that's  on't,  Helen,  that's  dead, 
Was  a  sweet  creature ;  such  a  ring  as  this, 
The  last  that  e'er  I  took  her  leave  at  court, 
I  saw  upon  her  finger. 

Ber.  Hers  it  was  not. 

King.    Now,  pray  you,  let  me  see  it;  for  mine  eye. 
While  I  was  speaking,  oft  was  fastened  to't.— 
This  ring  was  mine,  and,  when  I  gave  it  ihlen, 
I  bade  her,  if  her  fortune  ever  stood 
Necessitied  to  help,  that  by  this  token 
I  would  relieve  her.     Had  you  that  craft  to  reave  her 
Of  what  should  stead  her  most? 

j^^j.  My  gracious  sovereign. 

Howe'er  it  pleases  you  to  take  it  so, 
The  ring  was  never  h?rs. 
3  k 


no  ATJ;3  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.       [Act  \? 

Count.  Son,  on  my  life, 

I  have  seen  her  wear  it ;  and  she  reckoned  it 
At  her  life's  rate. 

Laf.  I  am  sure  I  saw  her  wear  it. 

Ber.    You  are  deceived,  my  lord ;  she  never  saw  it 
Tn  Florence  was  it  from  a  casement  thrown  me 
Wrapped  in  a  paper,  which  contained  the  name 
Of  her  that  threw  it ;  noble  she  was,  and  thought 
I  stood  ingaged  ;  but  when  I  had  subscribed 
To  mine  own  fortune,  and  informed  her  fully, 
I  could  not  answer  in  that  course  of  honor 
As  she  had  made  the  overture,  she  ceased, 
In  heavy  satisfaction,  and  would  never 
Receive  the  ring  again. 

King.  Plutus  himself, 

That  knows  the  tinct  and  multiplying  medicine, 
Hath  not  in  nature's  mystery  more  science. 
Than  I  have  in  this  ring :   'twas  mine,  'twas  Helen's, 
Whoever  gave  it  you.     Then  if  you  know 
That  you  are  well  acquainted  with  yourself. 
Confess  'twas  hers,  and  by  what  rough  enforcement 
You  got  it  from  her.     She  called  the  saints  to  surety, 
That  she  would  never  put  it  from  her  finger 
Unless  she  gave  it  to  yourself  in  bed, 
(Where  you  have  never  come,)  or  sent  it  us 
Upon  her  great  disaster. 

Ber.  She  never  saw  it. 

King.    Thou  speak'st  it  falsely,  as  I  love  mine  honoi 
And  mak'st  conjectural  fears  to  come  into  me. 
Which  I  would  fain  shut  out.     If  it  should  prove 
That  thou  art  so  inhuman, — 'twill  not  prove  so  ; — 
And  yet  I  know  not :  —  thou  didst  hate  her  deadly, 
And  she  is  dead ;  which  nothing,  but  to  close 
Her  eyes  myself,  could  win  me  to  believe, 
More  than  to  see  this  ring. — Take  him  away. — 

[Guards  seize  Bertram. 
My  fore-past  proofs,  howe'er  the  matter  fall, 
Shall  tax  my  fears  of  little  vanity, 
Having  vainly  feared  too  little. — Away  with  him ; — 
We'll  sift  tills  matter  further. 

Ber.    If  you  shall  prove 
This  ring  was  ever  hers,  you  shall  as  easy 
Prove  that  I  husbanded  her  bed  in  Florence, 
Where  yet  she  never  was.  [^Exit  Bertram,  guarded. 


Act  V  ]       ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.  711 

Enter  a  Gentleman 

King     I  am  wrapped  in  dismal  thinkings. 

Gent.  Gracious  sovereign. 

Whether  I  have  heen  to  blame,  or  no,  I  know  not ; 
Here's  a  petition  from  a  Florentine, 
Who  hath,  for  four  or  five  removes,  come  short 
To  tender  it  herself.     I  undertook  it, 
Vanquished  thereto  by  the  fair  grace  and  speech 
Of  the  poor  suppliant,  who  by  this,  I  know, 
Is  here  attending.     Her  business  looks  in  her 
With  an  importing  visage ;  and  she  told  me, 
In  a  sweet  verbal  brief,  it  did  concern 
Tour  highness  with  herself. 

King.  [Reads.]  Upon  his  many  protestations  to  marry 
me,  when  his  wife  was  dead,  I  blush  to  say  it,  he  won  me. 
Noiv  is  the  count  Rousillon  a  tvidower ;  his  vows  are  for- 
feited to  me,  and  my  honor  s  j^aid  to  him.  He  stole  from 
Florence,  taking  no  leave,  and  I  follow  him  to  his  country 
for  justice.  G-rant  it  me,  0  king ;  in  you  it  best  lies; 
otherwise  a  seducer  flourishes,  and  a  poor  maid  is  undone. 

Diana  Capulet. 

Laf.  I  will  buy  me  a  son-in-law  in  a  fair,  and  toll  for 
this ;  I'll  none  of  him. 

King.    The  Heavens  have  thought  well  on  thee,  Lafeu, 
To  bring  forth  this  discovery. —  Seek  these  suitors. — 
Go,  speedily,  and  bring  again  the  count. 

[Uxeunt  Gentleman,  and  some  Attendants. 
1  am  afeard,  the  life  of  Helen,  lady. 
Was  foully  snatched. 

Count.  Now,  justice  on  the  doers ! 

Enter  Bertram,  guarded. 
King.    I  wonder,  sir,  since  wives  are  monsters  to  you, 
And  that  you  fly  them  as  you  swear  them  lordship, 
Yet  you  desire  to  marry.     What  woman's  that? 

Re-enter  Gentleman,  with  Widow  and  Diana. 

Dia.    I  am,  my  lord,  a  wretdicd  Florentine, 
Derived  from  the  ancient  Capulet. 
My  suit,  as  I  do  understand,  you  know. 
And  therefore  know  how  far  I  may  be  pitied. 

Wid.    I  am  her  mother,  sir,  whose  age  and  hinor 
Both  suffer  under  this  complaint  we  bring, 
And  both  shall  cease,  without  your  remedy. 


712  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  \YELL.       [Act  V 

King.    Come  hither,  Count.    Do  you  know  these  women  ? 

Ber.    Mj  lord,  I  neither  can  nor  will  deny 
But  that  I  know  them.     Do  they  charge  me  further? 

Dia.    Why  do  you  look  so  strange  upon  your  wife  ? 

Ber.    She's  none  of  mine,  my  lord. 

Dia.  If  you  shall  marry, 

You  give  away  this  hand,  and  that  is  mine ; 
You  give  away  Heaven's  vows,  and  those  are  mine ; 
Y^ou  give  away  myself,  which  is  known  mine ; 
For  I  by  vow  am  so  imbodied  yours. 
That  she,  which  marries  you,  must  marry  me, 
Either  both  or  none. 

Laf.    Y'^our  reputation  [^To  Berteam.]  comes  too  short 
for  my  daughter :  you  are  no  husband  for  her. 

Ber.    My  lord,  this  is  a  fond  and  desperate  creature, 
Whom  sometimes  I  have  laughed  w^ith :  let  your  highness 
Lay  a  more  noble  thought  upon  mine  honor. 
Than  for  to  think  that  I  would  sink  it  here. 

King.    Sir,  for  my  thoughts,  you  have  them  ill  to  friend, 
Till  your  deeds  gain  them.     Fairer  prove  your  honor, 
Than  in  my  thought  it  lies ! 

Bia.  Good  my  lord, 

Ask  him  upon  his  oath,  if  he  does  think 
He  had  not  my  virginity. 

King.    What  say'st  thou  to  her  ? 

Ber.  She's  impudent,  my  lord; 

And  was  a  common  gamester  to  the  camp. 

Bia.    He  does  me  wrong,  my  lord ;  if  I  were  so, 
He  might  have  bought  me  at  a  common  price. 
Do  not  believe  him  :   0,  behold  this  ring. 
Whose  high  respect,  and  rich  validity. 
Did  lack  a  parallel ;  yet,  for  all  that 
He  gave  it  to  a  commoner  o'  the  camp,  j 

If  I  be  one. 

Count.  He  blushes,  and  'tis  it : 

Of  six  preceding  ancestors,  that  gem 
Conferred  by  testament  to  the  sequent  issue. 
Hath  it  been  owned  and  worn.     This  is  his  wife: 
That  ring's  a  thousand  proofs. 

King.  Methought  you  said 

You  saw  one  here  in  court  could  witness  it. 

Bia.    I  did,  my  lord,  but  loath  am  to  produce 
So  bad  an  instrument ;  his  name's  Parolles. 

Laf.    I  saw  the  man  to-day,  if  man  he  be. 

King,    Find  him,  and  bring  him  hither. 

Ber.  What  of  him? 


A.CT  v.]       Al.L'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.  713 

He's  quoted  for  a  most  perfidious  slave, 

Witb  all  tiie  spots  o'  the  world  taxed  and  deboslied; 

Whose  nature  sickens  but  to  speak  a  truth. 

Am  I  or  that,  or  this,  for  what  he'll  utter, 

That  will  speak  any  thing? 

King.  She  hath  that  ring  of  yours. 

Ber.    I  think  she  has :  certain  it  is,  I  liked  her, 
And  boarded  her  i'the  wanton  way  of  youth. 
She  knew  her  distance,  and  did  angle  for  me, 
Maddening  my  eagerness  with  her  restraint, 
As  all  impediments  in  fancy's  course 
Are  motives  of  more  fancy ;  and,  in  fine. 
Her  insuit  coming  with  her  modern  grace, 
Subdued  me  to  her  rate.     She  got  the  ring ; 
And  I  had  that,  which  any  inferior  might 
At  market-price  have  bought. 

Dia.  I  must  be  patient: 

You  that  turned  off"  a  first  so  noble  wife. 
May  justly  diet  me.     I  pray  you,  yet, 
(Since  you  lack  virtue,  I  will  lose  a  husband,) 
Send  for  your  ring ;  I  will  return  it  home ; 
And  give  me  mine  again. 

Ber.  I  have  it  not. 

King.    What  ring  was  yours,  I  pray  you? 

Dia.  Sir,  much  like 

The  same  upon  your  finger. 

King.    Know  you  this  ring  ?    This  ring  was  his  of  late. 

Dia.    And  this  was  it  I  gave  him,  being  abfil. 

King.    The  story  then  goes  false,  you  threw  it  him 
Out  of  a  casement. 

Dia.  I  have  spoke  the  truth. 

Enter  Parolles. 

Ber.    My  lord,  I  do  confess  the  ring  was  hers. 

King.  You  boggle  shrewdly ;  every  featlier  starts  you. 

Is  this  the  man  you  speak  of? 

Dia.  Ay,  my  lord. 

King.    Tell  me,  sirrah,  but  tell  me  true,  I  charge  you, 
Not  fearing  the  displeasure  of  your  master, 
(Which,  on  your  just  proceeding,  I'll  keep  olT,) 
By  him,  and  by  this  woman  here,  what  know  you  ? 

Par.  So  please  your  majesty,  my  master  hath  been  an 
honorable  gentleman ;  tricks  he  hath  had  in  him,  which  gen 
tlemen  iiave. 

King.    Come,  come,  to  the  purpose.     Did  he  lovo  thia 
woman  ? 

3k* 


714  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  AYELL.        [Act  V 

Par.    Tnith,  sir,  he  did  love  Lev;  but  how? 

King.    How,   I  pray  you  ? 

Par.    He  did  love  her,  sir,  as  a  gentleman  loves  a  woman. 

King.    Hjw  is  that? 

Par.    He  loved  her,  sir,  and  loved  her  not. 

King.  As  thou  art  a  knave,  and  no  knave.  —  What  an 
equivocal  companion  is  this ! 

Par.    I  am  a  poor  man,  and  at  your  majesty's  command 

Laf.  He's  a  good  drum,  my  lord,  but  a  naughty  orator. 

Pia.    Do  you  know  he  promised  me  marriage  ? 

Par.    'Faith,  I  know  more  than  I'll  speak. 

King.    But  wilt  thou  not  speak  all  thou  know'st  ? 

Par.  Yes,  so  please  your  majesty.  I  did  go  between 
them,  as  I  said;  but  more  than  that,  he  loved  her,  —  for, 
indeed,  he  was  mad  for  her,  and  talked  of  Satan,  and  of 
limbo,  and  of  furies,  and  I  know  not  what :  yet  I  was  in 
that  credit  with  them  at  that  time,  that  I  knew  of  their  going 
to  bed,  and  of  other  motions,  as  promising  her  marriage,  and 
things  that  would  derive  me  ill  will  to  speak  of;  therefore  I 
will  not  speak  what  I  know. 

King.    Thou  hast  spoken  all  already,  unless  thou  canst 
say  they  are  married.    But  thou  art  too  line  in  thy  evidence : 
therefore  stand  aside. — 
This  ring,  you  say,  was  yours? 

Pia.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

King.    Where  did  you  buy  it  ?  or  who  gave  it  you  ? 

Pia.    It  was  not  given  me,  nor  I  did  not  buy  it. 

King.    Who  lent  it  you  ? 

Pia.  It  was  not  lent  me  neither. 

King.    W^here  did  you  find  it  then  ? 

Pia.  I  found  it  not. 

King.    If  it  were  yours  by  none  of  all  these  ways, 
How  could  you  give  it  him  ? 

Pia.  I  never  gave  it  him. 

Laf.  This  woman's  an  easy  glove,  my  lord ;  she  goes  off 
and  on  at  pleasure. 

King.    This  ring  was  mine ;  I  gave  it  his  first  wife. 

Pia.    It  might  be  yours,  or  hers,  for  aught  I  know. 

King.    Take  her  away ;  I  do  not  like  her  now ; 
To  prison  with  her :  and  away  with  him. 
Unless  thou  tell'st  me  where  thou  hadst  this  ring, 
Thou  diest  within  this  hour. 

Pia.  I'll  never  tell  you. 

King.    Take  her  away. 

Dia.  I'll  put  in  bail,  my  liege. 

King.    I  think  thee  now  some  common  customer. 


Act  v.]       ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.  71^ 

Dia.    By  Jove,  if  ever  I  knew  man,  'twas  you. 

King.  AVherefore  hast  thou  accused  him  all  this  while  ? 

Dia.    Because  he's  guilty,  and  he  is  not  guilty: 
He  knows  I  am  no  maid,  and  he'll  swear  to't : 
I'll  swear  I  am  a  maid,  and  he  knows  not. 
Great  king,  I  am  no  strumpet,  by  my  life ; 
I  am  either  maid,  or  else  this  old  man's  wife. 

[Pointimj  to  Lafeu. 

King.    She  does  abuse  our  ears ;  to  prison  with  her. 

Dia.    Good  mother,  fetch  my  bail.  —  Stay,  royal  sir ; 

[Exit  Widow. 
The  jeweller  that  owes  the  ring  is  sent  for, 
And  he  shall  surety  me.     But  for  this  lord, 
Who  hath  abused  me,  as  he  knows  himself. 
Though  yet  he  never  harmed  me,  here  I  quit  him. 
He  knows  himself  my  bed  he  hath  defiled ; 
And  at  that  time  he  got  his  wife  with  child: 
Dead  though  she  be,  she  feels  her  young  one  kick; 
So  there's  my  riddle,  One  that's  dead  is  quick. 
And  now  behold  the  meaning. 

Re-enter  Widow,  with  Helena. 

Xing.  I*  there  no  exorcist 

Beguiles  the  truer  oflfice  of  mine  eyes? 
Is't  real  that  I  see? 

ffel.  No,  my  good  lord; 

'Tis  but  the  shadow  of  a  wife  you  see, 
The  name,  and  not  the  thing. 

^gj.  Both,  both.     0,  pardon! 

Eel.    0  my  good  lord,  when  I  was  like  this  maid, 
I  found  you  wondrous  kind.     There  is  your  ring. 
And,  look  you,  here's  your  letter.     This  it  says. 
When  from  viy  finger  you  can  get  this  ring, 
And  are  by  me  with  child,  &c.  — This  is  done: 
Will  you  be  mine,  now  you  are  doubly  won. 

Ber.  If  she,  my  liege,  can  make  me  know  this  clearly, 
I'll  love  her  dearly;  ever,  ever  dearly. 

Kel.    If  it  appear  not  plain,  and  prove  untrue, 
Deadly  divorce  step  between  me  and  you. 
0  my  dear  mother,  do  I  see  you  living  . 

Laf.  Mine  eyes  smell  onions;  I  shall  woop  anon.- 
Good  Tom  Drum,  [To  Parolles.]  lend  me  a  handkerchief 
So,  I  thank  thee  ;  wait  on  me  home.  I'll  make  sport  with 
thee.     Let  thy  courtesies  alone ;  they  arc  scurvy  ones. 


716  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.        [Act  V 

King.    Let  us  from  point  to  point  this  story  know 
To  make  the  even  truth  in  pleasure  flow. — 
If  thou  be'st  yet  a  fresh,  uncropped  flower,    [To  "Diana. 
Choose  thou  thy  husband,  and  I'll  pay  thy  dower: 
For  I  can  guess,  that,  by  thy  honest  aid, 
Thou  kept'st  a  wiffi  herself,  thyself  a  maid. — 
Of  that,  and  all  the  progress,  more  and  less, 
Resolvedly  more  leisure  shall  express ; 
All  yet  seems  well ;  and  if  it  end  so  meet, 
The  bitter  past  more  welcome  is  the  sweet.  [Flourish,. 

Advancing. 

TJie  king's  a  beggar,  now  the  play  is  done: 
All  is  well  ended,  if  this  suit  he  won, 
That  you  express  content  which  we  will  pay, 
With  strife  to  please  you,  day  exceeding  day. 
Ours  he  your  patience  then,  and  yours  our  parts ; 
Your  gentle  hands  lend  us,  and  take  our  hearts. 

rExeunt 


EXPLANATORY  NOTES. 


717 


EXPLANATORY  NOTES. 


TEMPEST. 

"A  rotten  carcass  of  a  boat." — Act  I.  Sc.  2. 

Shakspeare  mig-ht  have  read  the  following  in  Holinshed: — "After  this 
was  Edwin,  the  king's  brother,  accused  of  some  conspiracie  by  him  begun 
against  the  king:  whereupon  he  was  banished  tiie  land  ;  and  sent  out  in 
an  old  rotten  vessel,  without  rowrrs  or  mariner,  onlie  accom|)anied  with 
one  esquier :  so  that  being  launched  forth  from  the  shore,  llirough  de- 
spaire,  Edwin  leaped  into  the  sea,  and  drowned  himself." 

"  Setebos."— Act  I.  Sc.  2. 

We  learn  from  Magellan's  Voyages,  that  Selebos  was  the  supreme 
god  of  the  Pataffons.  This  fabulous  deity  is  also  mentioned  in  Hack- 
luyt's  Voyages,  1598.  Barbot  says,  "  The  Pntaguns  are  rcpDfled  to  dread 
a  great  horned  devil,  called  Setebos."  And,  in  Eden's  Historye  of  Tra- 
vayle,  1577,  we  are  told,  that  "  the  giantes,  when  they  found  themselves 
fettered,  roared  like  bulls,  and  cried  upon  Setehos  to  help  thom." 

" For  no  kind  of  traffic 

Would  I  admit,  no  name  of  magistrate.'''' — Act  II.  Sc.  1. 

Shakspeare  has  here  followed  a  passage  in  Montaigne,  as  translated 
by  John  Florio,  1603  : — "  It  is  a  nation  that  hath  no  kind  of  tmfficke,  no 
knowledge  of  letters,  no  intelligence  of  numbers,  no  lumip  of  moaistrate, 
nor  of  politic  sitperioritie ;  no  nse  of  service,  of  ricli<s,  or  of  povertie  ,- 
no  contracts,  no  successions,  no  partitions,  no  occupation,  hiit  idle ;  no 
respect  of  kindred  but  common;  no  apparel  but  natural ;  no  use  of  wine, 
corn,  or  metal  The  very  words  that  import  lying,  falsehood,  treason, 
dissimulations,  covetousness,  envie,  detraction,  and  pardon,  were  never 
heard  amongst  them." 

'  Sometime  like  apes,  that  mow  and  dialler  at  me. 
And  after  hate  me  ,■  then  like  hedire-hogs,  which 
Lie  tumbling  in  my  bare-foot  way." — .\ct  11.  Sc.  2. 
Perhaps  taken  from  a  passage  in  Harsnet's  Declaration  of  Popish  Im- 
postures.    "They  make  antike  faces,  grin,  mow  and  mop,  like  an  ape, 
tumble  like  an  hedge-hog."— Dovce. 


"A  dead  Indian."— Act  II.  Sc.  2. 

Sir  Martin  Frobisher,  when  he  returned  from  his  voyage  ^f  '|iscove^ 

brought  with   him  some  native  Indians.     In  his  I  .story  of  the   First 

Voyage  for  the  Discoverie  of  Catay«.  we  have  tiie  Inllowmg  nccnnnt  of  a 

savage  taken  by  him  :-"  Whereupon,  when  he  fou.ide  l'""l'j'J  '"  c-'Pt'" 


720  EXPLANATORY    NOTES. 

vitie,  for  very  choler  and  disdain,  he  bit  his  ton^  in  twaine,  within  his 
mouth  :  notwitlistanding,  he  died  not  thereof,  but  lived  unlill  he  came  in 
Englande,  and  then  he  died  qfcolde,  which  he  had  taken  at  sea." 

Steevens. 

"A'or  scrape  trenchering." — Act  III.  tSc.  1. 

In  our  author  s  time,  trenchers  were  in  general  use,  and  male  domes- 
tics were  employed  in  cleansing  them.  "  I  have  helped  (says  Lyly,  in 
his  History  of  liis  Life  and  Times,  1620,)  to  carry  eighteen  tubs  of  water 
in  one  morning  ;  all  manner  of  drudgery  I  willingly  performed  ;  scrape- 
trenchers"  &C. MiUiONE. 

"  He  were  a  brave  monster  indeed,  if  they  were  set  in  his  tail." — Act 
III.  Sc.  2. 

Probably  in  allusion  to  Stowe.  It  seems  in  the  year  1574  a  whale  was 
thrown  ashore  near  Ramsgate,  "a  monstrous  fish,  but  not  so  monstrous 
as  some  reported,  for  his  eyes  were  in  his  head,  and  not  in  his  backe." 

"  This  is  the  tune  of  our  catch,  played  by  the,picture  of  Nobody." — Act 

III.  Sc.  2. 

A  ridiculous  figure,  sometimes  painted  on  signs.  Westward  for  Smelts, 
a  book  which  our  poet  seems  to  have  read,  was  printed  for  John  Trundle, 
in  Barbican,  at  the  sign  of  the  No-body ;  or  the  allusion  may  be  to  the 
print  of  No-body,  as  prefixed  to  the  anonymous  comedy  of  No-body  and 
Some-body,  without  date,  but  printed  before  the  year  1600. — Malone. 

"  One  tree,  the  phmnix'  throne." — Act  III.  Sc.  3. 

In  Holland's  Pliny,  the  following  passage  occurs :  "  I  myselfe  verily 
have  heard  straunge  things  of  this  kind  of  tree ;  and,  namely,  in  regard 
of  the  bird  Phoenix,  which  is  supposed  to  have  taken  that  name  of  this 
Date  Tree  ;  for  it  was  assured  unto  me,  that  the  said  bird  died  with  that 
tree,  and  revived  of  itselfe  as  the  tree  sprung  again." 

Mountaineers, 


Dew-lapped  like  bulls,  whose  throats  had  hanging  at  them 
Wallets  of  flesh .?"— Act  III.  Sc.  3. 

Whoever  is  curious  to  know  the  particulars  relative  to  these  moun- 
taineers, may  consult  Maundeville's  Travels,  printed  in  1503:  but  it  is 
yet  a  known  truth,  that  the  inhabitants  of  the  Alps  have  been  long  accus- 
tomed to  such  excrescences  or  tumours. — Steevens. 

"  Each  putter-out  of  one  for  five." — Act  III.  Sc.  3. 

The  custom  here  alluded  to  was  as  follows  : — It  was  a  practice  of  those 
who  engaged  in  long  and  hazardous  expeditions,  to  place  out  a  sum  of 
money,  on  condition  of  receiving  great  interest  for  it  at  their  return  home. 
So  in  Ben  Jonson's  Every  Man  in  his  Humour  : — "  I  do  intend  this  year 
of  jubilee  coming  on,  to  travel ;  and  (because  I  will  not  altogether  go 
upon  expence)  I  am  determined  to  put  some  five  thousand  pound,  to  be 
paid  me  five  for  one,  upon  the  return  of  my  wife,  myself,  and  my  dog, 
iTom  the  Turk's  court,  in  Constantinople." 

"  lAke  poison,  given  to  work  a  great  time  after." — Act  III.  Sc.  3. 

The  natives  of  Africa  were  supposed  to  be  possessed  of  the  secret  how 
to  temper  poisons  with  such  art,  as  not  to  operate  till  several  years  after 


E  X  P  L  A  N  A  T  O  R  Y    N  O  T  E  S .  721 

they  were  administered.  Italian  travellers  relate  similai  effects  of  the 
aqua  to/ana,  a  subtle,  colourless  and  tasteless  poison,  whicii  ladies  carry 
about  thetn,  and  have  at  their  toilets,  amonor  iheir  perfumed  wattrs,  for 
the  purpose  of  admmistermg  in  the  drink  of  tiiithless  lovers.  In  the 
chapel  at  Arundel,  is  the  effiiry  of  a  nobleman  of  the  Howard  family,  who 
haymg-  incurred  tiie  jealousy  of  an  Italian  lady  during  his  travels,  was, 
poisoned  in  this  manner,  and  died  after  lincrering  many  years.  The  officry 
represents  him  nearly  naked,  his  bones  scarcely  covered  by  his  skin,  and 
presenting  altogether  a  most  deplorable  spectacle. 

".And  all  be  turrCd  to  barnacles,  or  to  apes.'' —  Act  IV.  Sc.  1. 

Caliban's  barnacle  is  the  clakis  or  tree-goose.  Collins  very  simply  telia 
us,  that  the  barnacle  which  grows  on  ships  was  meant ;  and  quotes  the 
following  passage  to  support  his  opinion  :— "  There  are,  in  the  north  parts 
of  Scotland,  certaine  trees,  whereon  do  grow  shell-fishes,  which,  fallinp 
in  the  water,  do  become  fowls,  whom  we  call  burnukles ;  in  the  nortli  of 
England,  brant-geese ;  and  in  Lancashire,  tree-geese. 

"  Some  subtilties  o'  the  isle.''' — Act  V.  Sc.  1. 

This  is  a  phrase  adopted  from  ancient  cookery  and  confectionary. 
When  a  dish  was  so  contrived  as  to  appear  unlike  what  it  really  was, 
they  called  it  a  siibtilty.  Dragons,  castles,  trees,  &c.,  made  out  of  sugar, 
had  the  like  denomination. — Steevens. 


TWO  GENTLEMEN    OF  VERONA. 

"  Nay,  give  me  not  the  boots." — Act  1.  Sc.  1. 

The  boot  was  an  instrument  of  torture  used  only  in  Scotland.  Bishop 
Bur.iet  mentions  one  Maccael,  a  preacher,  who  beinjr  susprrlpil  of  trea- 
Bon,  underwent  the  punishment  so  late  as  IGGti.  "  He  was  put  to  the 
torture,  which,  in  Scotland,  they  call  the  boots;  for  they  put  a  p;iirof  iron 
boots  close  on  the  leg,  and  drive  wedges  between  these  and  the  leg.  The 
common  torture  was  only  to  drive  these  on  the  calf  of  the  leg.  but  I  have 
been  told  they  were  sometimes  driven  upon  the  shin  bone." — Reed. 

"A  laced  mutton." — Act  I.  Sc.  1. 

A  laced  mutton  was,  in  our  author's  time,  so  usual  a  term  for  a  cour- 
tezan, that  a  street  in  Clerkenwell  much  frequented  by  prostitutes,  was 
called  Mutton  Lane.— -Malone. 


"  I  see  you  have  a  month's  mind  to  them." — Act  I.  Sc.  2. 
A  month's  mind  was  an  anniversary  in  times  of  popery ;  or  a  Ie» 
solemnity  directed  by  will.  There  was  also  a  year's  mind,  and  a  week's 
mind.  So  in  Strype's  Memorials,  "  July,  l')')0.  was  the  mouth's  mind  of 
Sir  William  Sa.\ton,  who  died  the  last  month,  his  hearse  burninir  with 
wax.  and  the  morrow  mass  celebrated,  and  a  sermon  preached."— Crey. 

«'  Sir  Valentine  and  servant."—  Act  II.  Sc.  \. 
Here  Silvia  calls  her  lover,  .tervant,  and  again  below,  her  gmtle  »rr. 
vant.     This  was  the  language  of  ladies  to  their  lovers  when  Shaknpearp 
wrote. — Hawkins. 

Vol.  L  — 46  3l 


722  EXPLANATORY    NOTES 

'M  waxen  image  ''gainst  afire!''' — Act  II.  Sr.  4. 

Alluding  to  the  fig-ures  made  by  witches,  as  representatives  of  those 
whom  tliey  designed  to  torment  or  destroy.  King  James  ascribes  these 
images  to  the  devil,  in  his  Treatise  of  Deemonologie :  "To  some  others 
at  those  times  he  teacheth  iiow  to  make  pictures  of  waxe  or  claye,  that 
by  the  roasting  thereof,  the  persons  that  they  bear  the  name  of  may  be 
continually  melted,  and  dried  away  by  continual  sicknesse." — Weston. 

"  V^ith  a  cod-piece." — Act  II.  Sc.  7. 

Whoever  wishes  to  be  informed  respecting  this  particular  relative  to 
dress,  may  consult  Buliver's  Artificial  Changeling.  It  is  mentioned,  tooj 
in  Tyro's  Roaring  Megge,  1598: — 

"  Tyro's  round  breeches  have  a  cliffe  behind, 
And  that  same  perking  longitude  before; 
Which,  for  a  pin-case,  antique  plowmen  wore." 

Ocular  instruction  may  be  had  from  the  armour  shown  as  John  of  Gaunt's, 
in  the  Tower  of  London.  The  custom  of  sticking  pins  in  this  ostentatious 
piece  of  indecency  was  continued  by  the  Tower-wardens,  till  forbidden 
by  authority. — Steevens. 

"  Saint  Nicholas  fie  thy  speed .'" — Act  III.  Sc.  1. 

That  this  saint  presided  over  young  scholars,  may  be  gathered  from 
Knight's  Life  of  Dean  Collett;  for,  by  the  statutes  of  Paul's  Scliool  there 
inserted,  the  children  are  required  to  attend  divine  service  at  the  cathe- 
dral on  his  anniversary.  The  reason,  probably,  was,  that  the  legend  of 
this  saint  makes  him  to  have  been  a  bishop,  while  he  was  a  boy. 

Hawkins 
"  The  cover  of  the  salt  hides  the  salt." — Act  III.  Sc.  1. 

The  ancient  English  salt-cellar  was  very  different  from  the  modern, 
being  a  large  piece  of  plate,  generally  much  ornamented,  with  a  cover  to 
keep  the  salt  clean. 

"  Upon  whose  grave  thou  voiv^dst  pure  chastity.''^ — Act  IV.  Sc.  3. 

It  was  common  in  former  ages  for  widowers  and  widows  to  make  vows 
of  chastity,  in  honour  of  their  deceased  wives  or  husbands.  In  Dugdale's 
Antiquities  of  Warwickshire,  there  is  the  form  of  a  commission  by  the 
bishop  of  the  diocese  for  taking  a  vow  of  chastity  by  a  widow.  It  seems 
that,  besides  observing  tlie  vow,  the  widow  was  for  life  to  wear  a  veil, 
and  a  mourning  habit.  The  same  distinction  we  may  suppose  to  have 
been  made  in  respect  of  male  votarists. — Steevens. 

"  But  since  she  did  neglect  her  looking-glass, 
And  threw  her  sun-expelling  mask  away  " —  Act  IV.  Sc.  4. 

"  When  they  use  to  ride  abroad,  they  have  masks  or  vizors,  made  of 
velvet,  wherewith  they  coverall  their  faces,  having  holes  made  in  then 
against  their  eyes,  whereout  they  look  ;  so  that  if  a  man  that  knew  not 
their  guise  before,  should  chance  to  meet  one  of  them,  he  would  think  he 
met  a  monster  or  a  devil,  for  face  he  can  shew  (see)  none,  bin  two  broad 
holes  against  their  eyes,  with  glasses  in  them." — Anatomie  of  Abdseh, 


ESPLANATOPy    NOTES.  723 

MERRY   WIVES   OF   WINDSOR 

O^^i?'  ^-/«^/-^^re,^ou„.,  ..  ;     I  Heaul  say  k.  .„,  o,.-r«„ 

He  means  CWswoW,  \n  G\ouc,Mersh\re.  In  the  beirinnine  of  Jamea 
the  firsts  re.gn,  by  permission  of  the  kina,  one  Dover,  u  public-spirited 
attorney  of  Barton-on-the-Heath,  in  Warwickshire,  institute.!  on  the  hill« 
ot  ColsitoU  an  annual  celebration  of  ^ames,  consisting  of  rural  sports  and 
exercises  These  he  constantly  conducted  in  person,  well  mounted,  and 
accoutred  m  a  suit  of  his  majesufs  old  clothes;  and  they  were  frequented 
above  forty  years  by  the  nobility  and  gentry  for  sixty  miles  round,  till  the 
grand  rebellion  abolished  every  liberal  establishment.— T.  Wakto.v. 

"  Mill-sixpences." — Act  I.  Sc.  1. 
It  appears  from  a  passage  in  Sir  William  D'Avenant's  News  from  Pli- 
mouth,  that  these  mill-sixpences  were  used  by  way  of  counters  to  cast  up 
.  money :  "^ 

"- a  few  mill'd  sixpences,  with  which 

My  purser  casts  accompt." — Steevens. 

"  Edward  shovel-hoards." — Act  I.  So.  1. 

"Edward  ehovel-boards"  were  the  broad  shillings  of  Edward  VI.  Tay- 
'or,  the  water-poet,  in  his  Travel  of  Twelve-pence,  makes  him  complain. 

" the  unthrift  every  day 

With  my  face  downwards  do  at  shoave-board  play; 

That  had  I  had  a  beard,  you  may  suppose, 

They  had  worne  it  off,  as  they  have  done  my  nose." — Farmer. 

"  Go,  sirrah,  for  all  yoti  are  my  man,  go  wait  upon  my  cousin  Shal- 
low."—Act  I.  Sc.  1. 

This  passage  shows  that  it  vvas  formerly  the  custom  in  England,  as  it 
is  now  in  France,  for  persons  to  be  attended  at  dinner  by  their  own  ser- 
vants, wherever  they  dined. — Mason. 

"A  master  offence." — Act  I.  Sc.  1. 

Fencing  was  taught  as  a  regular  science.  Three  degrees  were  usually 
taken  in  this  art,  a  mnster^s,  a  provost'.s,  and  a  .-scholar's.  For  each  of 
these  a  prize  was  played,  as  e.\crcise.s  are  kept  in  universities  for  similar 
purposes.  The  weapons  they  used  were  the  axe,  the  pi|)e,  rapier  and 
target,  rapier  and  cloak,  two-swords,  the  two-hand  sword,  the  baslard- 
sword,  the  dagger  and  staff",  the  sword  and  buckler,  the  rapier  and  dagger, 
&c.  The  places  where  they  exercised  were,  commonly,  theatres,  lialld, 
or  other  enclosures  sufficient  to  contain  a  number  of  spectators  ;  as  Ely- 
place,  in  Holborn  ;  the  Belle  Sauvage,  on  Ludgate-hill ;  Huinpton-court, 
the  Artillery-garden,  &.c. — Stekve.ns. 

"  Sackersnn."— Act  I.  Sc.  2. 
Sackerson  or   Sacarson   was   the   name  of  a   hear,  exhibited   in  our 
author's  time,  at  Paris  Garden.     See  an  old  book  of  Epigrams,  by  Sir 
John  Da  vies: 

"Publius,  a  student  of  the  common  law, 
To  Paris  Garden  doth  liim.self  withdraw; 
Leaving  old  Ployden,  Dyer,  and  Broke,  alone. 
To  see^ld  Harry  Munk'es,  and  Sacarson." — Mau)N& 


724  EXPLANATORY    NOTES. 


'■  She  discourses,  she  carves,  she  gives  the  leer  of  imitation." 

Act  I.  sc.  a 

Anciently,  the  young'  of  both  sexes  were  instructed  in  carving,  as  a 
nece.ss;iry  accomplishment.  It  seems  to  have  been  considered  a  mark  of 
kindness  when  a  lady  carved  to  a  gentleman.  So  in  Vittoria  Corom- 
bona:  "Your  husband  is  wondrous  discontented.  I  did  nothing  to  dis- 
please him;  I  carved  to  him  at  supper-time." — Steevens  and  BoswELt, 

" for  gourd  and  ftillam  holds, 

And  high  and  low  beguile  the  rich  and  poor." — Act  1.  Sc.  3. 

Gourds  were,  probably,  dice  in  which  a  secret  cavity  had  been  made; 
Fullams  (so  called  because  chiefly  made  at  Fulharn)  those  which  had 
been  loaded  with  a  small  bit  of  lead.  High  men  and  low  men,  which 
are  also  cant  terms,  explain  themselves.  High  numbers  on  the  dice,  at 
hazard,  are  from  five  to  twelve  inclusive;  law,  from  aces  to  four. 

Malone. 
"  Flemish  drunkard.'''' — Act  II.  Sc.  1. 

It  is  not  without  cause  that  this  reproachful  phrase  is  used.  Sir  John 
Smythe,  in  Certain  Discourses,  4to.,  1590,  says,  that  the  habit  of  drmk- 
ing  to  excess  was  introduced  into  England  from  the  Low  Countries,  "by 
some  of  our  such  men  of  warre  within  these  verie  few  years :  whereof 
it  is  corne  to  passe  that  now-a-dayes  there  are  very  few  feastes  where  our 
said  men  of  warre  are  present,  but  they  do  invite  and  procure  all  the 
companie,  of  what  calling  soever  they  be,  to  carowsing  and  quaffing: 
and  because  they  will  not  be  denied  their  challenges,  they,  with  mania 
new  conges,  ceremonies,  and  reverences,  drinke  to  liie  healthe  and  pros- 
peritie  of  princes;  to  the  healthe  of  counsellors,  and  unto  the  healthe  of 
their  greatest  friends,  both  at  home  and  abroad  :  in  which  exercise  they 
never  cease  till  they  be  deade  drunke,  or,  as  the  Flemings  say,  doot 
dronken."  He  adds,  "and  this  aforesaid  detestable  vice  hath,  within 
these  six  or  seven  years,  taken  wonderful  roote  amongst  our  English 
nation,  that  in  times  past  was  wont  to  be  of  all  other  nations  in  Christen- 
dome  one  of  the  soberest." — Reed. 

"  My  long  sword." — x\ct  II.  Sc.  1. 
Before  the  introduction  of  rapiers,  the  swords  in  use  were  of  an  enor- 
mous length,  and  sometimes  raised  with  both  hands.  Shallow,  with  an 
old  man's  vanity,  censures  the  innovation  by  which  lighter  weapons  were 
introduced,  tells  what  he  could  once  have  done  with  his  long  sword,  and 
ridicules  the  terms  and  rules  of  the  rapier.  Shakspeare  commits  a  great 
anachronism  in  making  Shallow  talk  of  the  rapier  in  Henry  IV.'s  reign, 
a  hundred  and  seventy  years  before  it  was  used  m  England. — Johnson, 

"  When  Mistress  Bridget  lost  the  handle  of  her  fan." — Act  II.  Sc.  2. 

It  should  be  remembered  that  fans,  in  our  author's  time,  were  more 
costly  than  they  are  at  present,  as  well  as  of  a  different  construction. 
They  consisted  of  ostrich  feathers  (or  others  of  equal  length  and  flex- 
ibility), which  were  stuck  into  handles.  The  richer  sort  of  these  were 
composed  of  gold,  silver,  or  ivory,  of  curious  workmanship,  and  frequently 
ornamented  with  precious  stones.  Mention  is  made  in  the  Sydney 
Papers,  of  a.  fin  presented  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  for  a  new  year's  gift,  the 
handle  of  which  was  studded  with  diamonds.  It  was  no'  uncommon 
among  the  foppish  young  noblemen  of  that  age,  to  carry  fans  of  this 
splendid  description  ;  a  suigular  piece  of  effeminacy  for  that  early  period. 

Steevens,  &,c. 


EXPLANATORY    NOTES.  725 

"  Red  lattice  phrases.''— Act  II.  Sc.  2. 
Red  lattice  at  the  doors  and  windows  were  tbrmerlv  the  external  de- 
notemonts  ot   an    a!e-i.ouse.     Hence  the  present  chequers.     In  one  of 
Shackerley  Marmion  s  plays  we  read,  "a  waterman's  widow  at  the  si^ne 
of  the  Red  Lattice  in  Southwark."     It  is  a  curions  circumstance,  tliat 
the  5ign  ot  the  Chequers  was  common  anion?  the  Romans.     It  was  tbuud 
in  several  of  the  streets  excavated  at  Pompeii.— Steevens. 
"  Amaimon — Barbason." — Act  II.  Sc.  2. 
Reginald  Scott  informs  us,  that  "the  demon  Amaimon.  was  kino-  of 
the  East,  and  Bnrf>atos  a  sfreat  countie  or  earle."     Handle  Holme,  how- 
ever,  in  his  Academy  of  Armory  and  Blazon,  tells  us  thai,  ''  Amaymon  is 
the  chief  whose  dominion  is  on  the  north  side  of  the  infernal  irulpli ;  and 
that  Barbatvs  is  like  a  Sagittarius,  and  hath  thirty  legions  under  him." 

Steevens. 

"  That  becomes  the  ship-tire,  the  tire-valiant,  or  any  tire  of  Venetian 
admittance.'' — Act  III.  Sc.  3. 

The  extravajjance  of  female  dress  is  here  satirized.  We  shall  give  an 
extract  or  two  on  this  subject  from  contemporary  autli&rs: — 

"Their  heads,  with  their  top  and  tnp-<rallant  ciirlincrs,  they  make  a 
plain  puppet-stage  of  lawne  baby  caps,  and  snow-resembled  silver.  Tlieir 
breasts  they  embushe  up  on  hie,  and  their  round  roseate  buds  they  im- 
modestly lay  forth,  to  show  at  their  hands  there  is  fruit  to  be  hoped." 
Nashe's  Christ's  Teares,  1,594.  —  "  Oh,  what  a  wonder  it  is  to  see  a  ship 
under  saile  wMth  her  tacklings  and  her  masts,  and  her  tops  and  her  top-gal- 
lants, with  her  upper  decks  and  nether  decks,  and  so  bedeckt,  with  iier 
streamers,  flags,  and  ensignes,  and  1  know  not  what;  yea,  but  a  world  of 
wonders  it  is  to  see  a  woman  created  in  God's  image,  so  miscreate  oft 
times  and  deformed  with  her  French,  her  Spanish,  and  her  foolish  fash- 
ions, that  he  who  made  her,  when  he  looks  upon  iier,  shall  hardly  know 
her  with  her  plumes,  her  fan.s  and  her  silken  vizani,  with  a  ruffe  like  a 
saile ;  yea,  a  rnfff  like  a  rainbow,  icith  a  feather  in  her  cop,  like  a  flag 
in  her  top,  to  tell  (I  ihinke)  which  way  the  wind  unll  blow.  It  is  prover- 
bially said,  that  far-fetcht  and  dear-bought  is  fittest  for  ladies;  as  now-a- 
daies  what  groweth  at  home  is  base  and  homely ;  and  what  everie  one 
eates  is  meate  for  dogs;  and  wee  must  have  breade  from  one  countrie, 
and  drinke  from  another;  and  wee  must  have  meate  from  Spaine,  and 
sauce  out  of  Italy  ;  and  if  wee  weare  anything,  it  must  be  pure  Yemtinn, 
Roman,  or  barbarian;  but  the  fashion  of  all  must  be  French."  The 
Merchant  Royall.  a  sermon  preached  at  White-hall,  betbre  the  king's 
majestie,  at  the  nuptialls  of  Lord  Hay  and  his  lady,  Twcltlh-day,  1(107. 

Heed. 

"j4nrf  smell  like  Bucklersbury,  in  simple  time." — Act  III.  Sc.  3. 
Buchlersbury,  in  the  time   of  Shakspeare,  was  chiefly  inlmbitod  by 
druggists,  who  sold  all  kinds  of  herbs,  green  as  well  as  (/ry.— Stekvens. 

"  Let  the  sky  rain  potatoes;  hail  kissing  comfits,  and  snow  erini'ocs ; 
let  there  come  a  tempest  of  provocation." — Act  V.  Sc.  5. 

Potatoes,  when  they  were  first  introduced  in  England,  were  suppowed 
10  be  strong  proDOCrt/ii;f>s  ;  kissing-comforts  were  siignr-plums,  perfumed 
\o  make  the  breath  sweet.  Eringops,  like  potatoes,  were  e.stfem<-ij  t<:  be 
ftimulatives.  But  Shakspeare,  probably,  had  the  following  art ihruit  tem- 
pest in  his  thoughts,  when  he  .vrote  the  above  pas.sagc.  Holiiished  in- 
forms us,  that  in  the  year  1583,  for  the  entertainment  of  Fnnce  Alawo, 
was  performed      a  verie   statelie   tragedie,  named  Dido,   where-n   the 

3l* 


72G  EXPLANATORY    NOTES. 

queer's  banket  (with  ^Eneas's  description  of  tiie  destruction  ot  Troie) 
was  lively  described  in  a  marchpane  patterne;  the  tempest  wherein  it 
ha'.b'd  small  conj'ecl.s,  rained  ruse-water,  and  sitew  an  artificial  kind  qf 
gnow,  all  strange,  marvellous,  and  abundant." — Steevens. 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 

"  Thou  shall  present  me  as  an  eunuch  to  him." — Act  I.  Sc.  2. 

When  the  practice  of  castration  was  adopted  first,  solely  to  improve 
the  voice,  is  uncertain.  The  first  regular  opera  was  performed  at  Flor- 
ence, in  1600.  Till  about  1653,  musical  dramas  were  only  occasionally 
performed  in  the  palaces  of  princes,  and  consequently  before  that  period 
eunuchs  could  not  abound.  The  first  eunuch  that  was  suffered  to  sing  in 
the  Pope's  chapel  was  in  1600.  So  early,  however,  as  1604,  eunuchs  are 
mentioned  by  Marston,  in  the  Malcontent,  as  excelimg  in  singing.  "  Yes, 
I  can  sing,  fool,  if  you'll  bear  the  burden;  and  I  can  play  upon  instru- 
ments scurvily,  as  gentlemen  do.  O  that  I  had  been  gelded !  I  should 
then  have  been  a  fat  fool  for  a  chamber,  a  squeaking  fool  for  a  tavern,  and 
a  private  fool  for  all  the  ladies." — M alone. 

"  Like  a  parish  top.'"' — Act  I.  Sc.  3. 
A  large  top  was  formerly  kept  in  every  village,  to  be  wliipped  in  frosty 
weather,  that  the  peasants  might  be  kept  warm  by  exercise,  and  out  of 
mischief  when  they  could  not  work. —  Steevens, 

"  Mistress  MaWs  picture." — Act  I.  Sc.  3. 
The  real  name  of  the  woman  here  alluded  to  was  Mary  Frith.  The 
title  she  was  commonly  known  by  was  Mull  Cutpurse.  She  was  at  once 
an  hermaphrodite,  a  prostitute,  a  bawd,  a  bully,  a  thietj  a  receiver  of 
stolen  goods,  &c.  On  the  books  of  the  Stationers'  Company,  August, 
1610,  is  entered,  "A  Booke  called  the  Madde  Prancks  of  Merry  Mall  of 
the  Bankside,  with  her  walkes  in  Men's  Apparel,  and  to  what  purpose. 
Written  by  Joiin  Day."  Middleton  and  Decker  wrote  a  play  called  the 
Roaring  Girl,  of  which  she  is  the  heroine,  and  the  frontispiece  of  this 
drama,  published  in  1611,  contains  a  full-length  portrait  of  her  in  man's 
clothes,  smoking  tobacco.  There  is  a  MS.  in  the  British  Museum,  in 
which  an  account  is  given  of  Mall's  doing  penance  at  St.  Paul's  Cross. 
Her  extravagant  conduct  and  shameless  vices  seem  to  have  rendered  her 
infamously  public. 

"  A  most  weak  pia-maler." — Act  I.  Sc.  5. 
The  pia-mater  is  tlie  membrane  which  immediately  covers  the  sub- 
stance of  the  brain. — Steevens. 

"  Stand  at  your  door  like  a  sheriff^s  post." — Act  I.  Sc.  5. 

It  was  the  custom  for  that  officer  to  have  large  posts  set  up  at  his  door 
as  an  indication  of  his  office,  the  original  of  which  was,  that  the  king's 
proclamations  and  other  public  acts  might  be  affixed  thereto. 

Warburton. 
•'  Did  you  never  see  the  picture  of  we  three?" — x^ct  II.  Sc.  3. 

An  allusion  to  an  old  print  frequently  pasted  on  country  ale-house 
walls,  representing  two,  but  under  which  the  spectator  reads,  "  We  three 
are  asses."" — Malone, 


EXPLANATORY    NOTES.  727 

"Dost  thou  iJiink,  hpcause  thou  art  i-irtuous,  there  shall  be  no  mort 
cakes  and  aleV — Act  I[.  Sc.  3. 

It  was  the  custom  on  saint's  days  anJ  holidays,  tomakecoAps  in  honour 
of  the  day.  The  Puritans  thouofht  this  a  superstition,  and  Muria  says, 
that  "Malvoho  is  sometimes  a  kmd  of  Puritan."— Letherlanp. 

"  Ruh  your  chain  with  crumsy — Act  II.  Sc.  3. 

Stewards  in  great  families  were  f()rinerly  distinguislied  hv  w.>aiing  a 
gold  chain.  The  usual  mode  of  cieaninjr  lliis  ornament  was  Lv  nililmig 
it  with  bread  crumbs.  See  Webster's  Duchess  of  Malfy.  liiSi  "  Yea. 
and  the  chippings  of  the  buttery  fly  after  him,  to  scouer  'his  •^uhl  chain." 

St  KE  YENS. 

*^  Having  come  from  a  day-bed." — Act  11.  Sc.  5. 

It  was  usual  in  Shakspeare's  time,  for  the  rich  to  have  day-beds  or 
couches.  Spenser,  in  his  Fairy  Queen,  has  dropped  a  stroke  of  satire  OD 
this  lazy  fashion : — 

«'So  was  that  chamber  clad  in  goodly  wize, 
And  round  about  it  many  beds  were  dight. 
As  whilome  was  the  antique  worldes  guize. 
Some  for  untimely  ea?e,  some  for  delight." 

Steevbnb. 
"  Wind  up  my  watch." — Act  II.  Sc.  5. 

Pocket  watches  were  first  brought  from  Germany  about  the  year  IfvSO, 
60  that  in  Shakspeare's  time  they  were  very  uncommon.  Wlien  Guy 
Faux  was  taken,  it  was  urged  as  a  circumstance  of  suspicion,  that  a 
watch  was  found  upon  him. — Joh.nson. 

"  Yellow  stockings." — Act  II.  Sc.  5. 
Before  the  civil  wars,  yellow  stockings  were  much  worn.     We  quote 
two  passages  to  prove  this: — 

" since  she  cannot 

Wear  her  own  linen  yellow,  yet  she  shows 

Her  love  to't,  and  makes  him  weare  yellow  hose." 

The  \Vorld  Tos.s'd  at  Tenm*. 

And  in  the  Honest  Whore,  by  Decker:  "What  .ttockings  have  you 
put  on  this  morning,  madam  1  if  they  be  not  yellow,  change  thrm." 

Steevenb. 
"  Clown  with  a  tabor." — .Act  III.  Sc.  1. 

Tarleton,  the  celebrated  fool  or  clown  of  the  stage  before  Sliaksprnre's 
time,  is  exhibited  in  a  print  prefixed  to  his  jests.  Kill,  with  u  lalxtr.  Per- 
haps, in  imitation  of  him,  the  subsequent  dramatic  clowns  usually  ap- 
peared with  one. — Malone. 

"  If  thou  thou'st  him  some  thrice,  it  shall  not  be  amiss." 
•^  Act  III.  Sc.  2. 

Alludino-  to  a  passage  in  the  speech  of  the  attorney-pen«'nil  Coke,  at 
the  trial  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh.  "All  that  he  did  was  by  thy  mstiga- 
tion,  thou  viper;  for  I  thou  thee,  thou  traytor."— Theobald. 

"  He  does  smile  his  face  into  more  lines,  than^  are  in  the  nrw  map, 
with  the  augmentation  of  the  Indies."— Acl  111.  Sc.  3. 

A  clear  allusion  to  a  map  engraved  fJir  Linsrlioten's  Voyngr^.  an  Kn- 
gWsh  translation  of  whii  h  was  publi.shed  in  1598.     This  map  is  mullt- 


I 


728  E  X  P  1.  A  N  A  T  O  R  Y    N  0  T  E  S . 

lineal  in  the  extreme,  and  is  the  first  in  which  the  Eastern  Island?  are 
inchided. — Si  ekvens. 

"  Why  (lost  thou  smile  so,  and  kiss  thy  hand  so  oj't  ■" 

Act  III.  Sc.  4. 

This  fantastical  custom  is  taken  notice  of  by  Barnaby  Rice,  in  Faults, 
and  Nothing  but  Faults,  1606.  —  "And  these  Flowers  of  Courtesie,  as 
they  are  full  of  atiastation,  so  are  they  no  less  formal  in  tiieir  speeches, 
full  of  tustian  phrases,  many  times  delivering  such  sentences  as  do  betray 
and  lay  open  tlieir  masters'  ignorance;  and  they  are  so  frequent  with  the 
kisse  on  the  hajid,  tlial  word  shall  not  passe  their  mouthes,  till  they  have 
fdapt  their  fingers  over  their  lippes." — Reed. 

"  He  is  a  knight,  duhb'd  with  unhaldid  rapier,  and  on  carpet  con- 
sideration.''''— Act  III.  Sc.  4. 

That  is,  he  is  no  soldier  by  profession,  not  a  knight-banneret,  dubbed 
on  the  field  of  battle,  but  on  carpet  consideration,  at  a  festivity,  or  on 
some  peaceable  occasion,  when  knights  receive  their  dignity  kneeling; 
not  in  war,  but  on  a  carpet.  This  is,  I  believe,  the  original  of  the  con- 
temptuous term,  a  carpet  knight,  who  was  naturally  held  in  scorn  by  the 
men  of  war. — Johnson. 

'-Are  empty  trunks,  6'erflourished  by  the  devil.'''' — Act  III.  Sc.  4. 

In  the  time  of  Shakspeare,  trunks,  which  are  now  deposited  in  lum- 
ber-rooms, were  part  of  the  furniture  in  apartments  where  company  waa 
received.  They  were  richly  ornamented  on  the  top  and  sides  with  scroll 
work  and  emblematical  devices,  and  were  elevated  on  feet. — Steevens. 

"  Why  should  I  not,  had  I  the  heart  to  do  it, 
Like  to  the  Egyptian  thief  at  point  of  death, 
Kill  what  I  lover— Act  V.  Sc.  1. 

This  Egyptian  thief  \\'a.s  Thyamis,  who  was  a  native  of  Memphis, and 
at  the  head  of  a  band  of  robbers.  Then  genes  and  Chariclea  falling  into 
their  hands,  Thyamis  fell  desperately  in  love  with  the  lady,  and  would 
have  married  her.  Soon  after,  a  stronger  body  of  robbers  coming  down 
upon  Tliyamis's  party,  he  was  in  such  fears  for  his  mistress,  that  he  had 
her  shut  into  a  cave  with  his  treasure.  It  was  customary  with  those  bar- 
barians, "when  they  despaired  of  their  own  safety,  first  to  make  away 
with  those  whom  iliey  lield  dear,"  and  desired  tor  companions  in  the  next 
life:  Thyamis,  therefore,  benetted  round  with  his  enemies,  raging  with  love, 
jealousy,  and  anger,  went  to  the  cave,  and  calling  aloud  in  the  Egyptian 
tongue,  as  soon  as  he  heard  himself  answered  towards  the  cave's  mouth 
by  a  Grecian,  making  to  the  person  by  the  direction  of  tlie  voice,  he 
caught  her  by  the  hair  with  his  letl  hand,  and  (supposing  her  to  be  Cha- 
riclea) with  the  right  hand  plunged  his  sword  into  lier  breast.  This  story 
is  taken  tVom  Heliodorus's  iEthiopics,  of  vvliich  a  translation  by  Thomas 
Underdowne  appeared  in  1587. — Theobald. 

"  After  a  passy  measure,  or  a  pavin.''^ — Act  V.  Sc.  1. 

The  pavan,  from  pavo,  a  peacock,  is  a  grave  and  majestic  dance.  The 
Tnethod  of  dancing  it  was  by  gentlemen  dressed  with  cap  and  sword,  by 
those  of  the  long  robe  in  their  gowns,  by  princes  in  llieir  mantles,  and  by 
ladies  in  gowns  with  long  trains,  the  motion  whereof,  in  the  dance-  re- 
sembled that  of  a  peacock's  tail. — Sir  J.  Hawkins. 


EXPLANATORY    NOTES.  729 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 

"  Seme  run  from  brakes  of  vice"— Act  II.  Sc.  1. 
The  brake  was  an  engine  of  torture ;  we  find  the  foUowino  passafre  in 
Hohnshed  :— "  The  said  Hawkins  was  cast  into  the  Tower,  and  at  hMi<rth 
brought  to  the  brake,  called  in  derision  the  duke  of  Exeter's  dau<r|iter;" 
that  nobleman  having  invented  it.  A  part  of  this  horrid  engine  >tdl  re- 
mams  m  the  Tower.  It  consists  of  a  strong  iron  frame  abiiul  si.x  feet 
long,  with  three  rollers  of  wood  within  it;  the  middle  one  of  these,  which 
has  iron  teeth  at  each  end,  is  governed  by  two  stops  of  iron,  and  was,  pro- 
bably, that  part  of  the  machine  which  suspended  the  powers  of  tiie  rest, 
when  the  unhappy  sufferer  was  sufficiently  strained  by  the  cords,  &.c.,  to 
begin  confession. — Steevens. 

"  Greatest  thing  about  you."— Act  II.  Sc.  1. 

Harrison,  in  his  description  of  Britain,  condemns  the  e.xcess  of  apparel 
among  his  countrymen,  and  thus  proceeds:  —  "Neitiier  can  we  be  more 
justly  burdened  with  any  reproche  than  inordinate  behaviour  in  apparell. 
for  which  most  nations  deride  us;  as  also  for  that  we  nun  doe  seem  tc 
bestowe  most  cost  upon  our  arses,  and  much  more  than  upon  all  the  rest 
of  our  bodies,  as  women  do  likewise  upon  their  lieades  and  shoulders." 
Wide  breeches  were  extremely  fashionable  in  Shakspeare's  days,  as  we 
may  learn  from  this  stanza  in  an  old  ballad  : 

As  now,  of  late,  in  lesser  thinges, 

To  furnyshe  forthe  theare  pryde; 
With  woole,  with  flaxe,  witii  hare  also, 

To  make  theare  bryches  wide."  DoucE. 

" merely,  thnii  art  death's  fool ; 

For  him  thou  lahourest  by  thy  fliffhl  to  shun, 
And  yet  ruii'st  toward  hi?n  still." — Act  111.  Sc.  1. 

In  the  old  Moralities,  the  fool  of  the  piece,  in  order  to  show  the  inevi- 
table approaches  q\' d^ath,  is  made  to  employ  all  his  .stratagems  to  avoid 
him;  which,  as  the  matter  is  ordered,  bring  the  foid  at  every  turn  into 
his  very  jaws. — Wakburton. 

"An«?  his  use  was,  to  put  a  ducat  in  her  clack-dish." — .Act  HI.  Sc.  2. 

The  beggars,  two  or  three  centuries  ago,  used  to  proclaim  their  wanta 
by  a  iDOoden  dish  with  a  moveable  cover,  which  they  cluckid,  to  bhow 
that  their  vessels  were  empty. — Steevens. 

^'A7id  tie  the  beard." — Act  IV.  Sr.  2. 

The  Revisal  recommends  Simpson's  emendation,  die  the  board,  but  the 
present  reading  may  stand.  Perhaps  it  was  usual  to  lie  u|i  the  beard 
before  decollation.  It  should,  however,  be  i-emembrri'd,  that  it  was  usual 
to  die  beards.     So  in  the  o  d  comedy  of  Ram  Alley,  1611 : 

"  What  colour'd  beard  comes  next  by  the  window  ! 
A  black  man's.  I   think. 
I  think,  a  red  ;  for  that  is  most  in  fiisliion." 

And  in  the  Silent  Woman:  "I  have  fitted  my  divine  and  canoniit, 
dyed  their  beards  a-xd  a//."— Steevens. 


730  EXPLANATORY    NOTES, 

"  Yon  know  the  course  is  common.'''' — Act  IV.  Sc.  2. 

P.  Mathieu,  in  his  Heroyke  Life  and  Deplorable  Death  of  Ht.>nry  the 
Fourthe  of  France,  says,  that  Ravaillac,  in  tiie  midst  of  his  tortures, 
lifted  up  his  head  and  shook  a  spark  of  fire  from  his  hfurd.  "This  un- 
profitable care  (he  adds)  to  save  it,  being  noted,  afforded  mater  to  divers 
{o  praise  the  cuslnme  in  Germany,  Switzerland,  and  divers  other  places, 
to  shave  off,  and  then  to  burn,  all  the  haire  from  all  parts  of  the  bodies  of 
those  who  are  convicted  for  any  notorious  crimes." — Reed. 

"  First,  here 's  youns;  master  Rash  ;  he  'j?  in  for  a  commodity  of  brown 
paper  and  old  ginger,  ninescore  and  seventeen  poujids." — Act  IV.  Sc.  3. 

An  allusion  is  here  made  to  the  abominable  practices  of  money-lenders 
in  our  poet's  age,  of  whicli  an  account  is  given  by  Nashe  in  a  pamphlet 
called  Clirist's  Tears  over  Jerusalem,  1594.  "He  (a  usurer)  falls  ac- 
quainted with  gentlemen,  frequents  ordinaries  and  dancing-houses  dayly, 
where  when  some  of  them  at  play  have  lost  all  their  money,  he  is  very 
diligent  at  hand,  on  their  chaines,  bracelets,  or  jewels,  to  lend  them  half 
the  value.  Now  this  is  the  nature  of  young  gentlemen,  that  where  they 
have  broke  the  ice,  and  borrowed  once,  they  will  come  againe  the  second 
time;  and  that  these  young  foxes  know  as  well  as  the  beggar  knows  his 
dish.  But  at  the  second  time  of  their  coming,  it  is  doubtful  to  say 
whether  they  shall  have  money  or  no.  The  world  goes  hard,  and  wee  all 
are  mortal;  let  him  make  any  assurance  before  a  judge,  and  they  shall 
have  some  hundred  pound  per  consecjuence,  in  silks  and  velvets.  The 
third  time  if  they  come,  they  shall  iiave  baser  commodities ;  the  fourth 
time,  lute-strings  and  grey  paper." — Malone. 

"  Show  your  sheep-biting  face,  and  be  hang''d  an  hour.'"  —  Act  V.  Sc.  1. 

The  poet  evidently  refers  to  the  ancient  mode  of  punishing  by  collis- 
trigium,  or  the  original  pillory,  made  like  that  part  of  the  pillory  at  pre- 
sent, which  receives  the  neck,  only  it  was  placed  horizontally,  so  that  the 
culprit  hung  suspended  in  it  by  his  chin  and  the  back  of  his  head. 

Henley. 

"  Stand  like  the  forfeits  in  a  barber\s  shop, 
As  much  in  mock  as  mark." — Act  V.  Sc.  1. 

Barber's  shops  were  at  all  times  the  resort  of  idle  people :  formerly 
with  us  the  better  sort  of  folks  went  to  the  barber's  to  be  trimmed,  who 
then  practised  the  under  parts  of  surgery,  so  that  he  had  occasion  for 
numerous  instruments,  which  lay  there  ready  for  use;  and  the  idle  per- 
sons, with  whom  his  shop  was  crowded,  would  be  perpetually  handling 
and  misusing  them.  To  remedy  which,  there  was  placed  up  against  the 
■wall  a  table  of  forfeitures,  adapted  to  every  offence  of  this  sort;  which  it 
is  not  likely  would  long  preserve  its  authority. — VVarburton. 


MUCH  ADO  a:e;out  nothing. 

"At  the  bird-bolt."— Act  I.  Sc.  1, 

The  bird-bolt  is  a  short  thick  arrow  without  a  point,  and  spreading  at 
the  extremity  so  much  as  to  leave  a  flat  surface  about  the  breadth  of  a 
shilling. — Steevens. 


EXPLANATORY    NOTES.  731 

"Anrf  he  that  hits  me,  let  him  be  clapped  on  the  shoulder,  and  called 
Adam.  — Act  I.  Sc.  1.  ' 

Why  sIk  uld  he  be  called  Adam  ?  A  quotation  or  two  may  explain  : 
In  Law  1  ricks,  or,  Who  Would  Have  Thought  It?  we  find  this  speech: 
»Af/«//i  BelL  a  substantial  (uillaw,  and  a  /^-/.v.vf »/;,'•  ^,><,d  nrrhir,  yet  no 
tobacconist."  Adam  Bell,  Clyme  of  the  Cloughe,  and  Wyllyam  of 
Cloudesle,  were,  says  Dr.  Percy,  three  noted  outlaw^,  wiiose  .skill  in 
archery  rendered  them  as  famous  in  the  north  of  England,  as  Robin 
Hood  and  his  fellows  were  in  the  midland  counties. 

Steevens  and  Theobald. 

''If  I  do,  hang  me  in  a  bottle  like  a  c«r"— Act  L  Sc.  1. 

In  some  counties  of  England,  a  cat  was  formerly  closed  up  with  a 
quantity  of  soot  in  a  wooden  bottle,  (such  as  that  in  which  shepherds  carry 
tbeir  liquor)  and  was  suspended  on  a  line.  He  who  beat  out  the  bottom 
as  he  ran  under  it,  ami  was  nimble  eiioujrh  to  escape  its  contents,  was 
regarded  as  the  hero  of  this  inhuman  diversion. — Steevens. 

"  Smoking  a  musty  room.'''' — Act  I.  Sc.  3. 

The  neglect  of  cleanliness  among  our  ancestors  rendered  snch  precau* 
tions  too  often  necessary.  In  a  paper  of  directions  drawn  up  by  Sir  John 
Pickering's  steward,  relative  to  Sutiblk  Place,  before  Elizabeth's  visits  to 
it  in  1594,  the  fifteenth  article  is,  "  The  swetynynge  of  ihr  h'^use  in  all 
places  by  any  meanes."  Again,  in  Biiiton's  Anatomic  of  Melancholie, 
1632:  "The  smoake  nf  jumper  is  in  great  request  with  us  at  O.vford,  to 
sweeten  our  chambers." — Steevens. 

"  Hundred  merry  tales." — Act  II.  Sc.  1. 

In  the  London  Ciiaunticleres,  1(^59,  this  work,  amonir  others,  is  cried 
for  sale  by  a  ballad  man:  "  The  Seven  Wise  Men  of  Gothiim;  a  Hun- 
dred Merry  Tales ;  Scoggin's  Jests,  &c."  Of  this  collection  there  are 
frequent  entries  in  the  register  of  the  Stationers'  Comp:iny. — Steevens. 

"  Carving  the  fashion  of  a  new  doublet." — Act  II.  Sc.  3. 

««  We  are  almost  as  fantastic  as  the  English  gentleman,  that  is  painted 
naked,  with  a  paire  of  sheares  in  his  hand,  as  not  belnsr  re.-olved  after 
what  fasiiion  to  have  his  coat  cut."— Greene's  Farewell  to  Folly,  1617. 

"■Her  hair  shall  be  of  what  colour  it  please  God." — Act  II.  Sc.  3. 

The  practice  of  dying  the  hair  was  so  common  a  fashion  in  Elizabeth's 
reign,  as  to  be  thought  a  fit  subject  of  animadversion  from  the  pulpit.  In 
a  homily  against  gaudy  apparel,  1547,  the  preacher  brmks  out  into  the 
following  invective:  — "Who  can  jxiyut  her  fan;  an,\  curU- hrr  hrtre, 
and  cha1i<re  it  into  an  xivnatural  colour,  but  therein  di.th  work  reprofo  to 
her  MakiM-,  who  made  lier  ?  as  tlinutrhe  she  could  mak<'  herselfe  more 
comelye  than  God  hath  appointed  the  measure  of  her  b.-aulie.  \N  hat  do 
these  women,  but  go  about  to  refbrme  that  which  GckI  hitli  mndel  not 
knowinge  that  all  things  naturall  is  the  worke  of  G<kI  ;  and  thyngea  du»- 
guysed  and  unnatural!  be  the  workesof  the  devyll."— Reed. 

''Press  me  to  death."— Act  III.  Sc.  1. 
The  allusion  is  to  an  ancient  punishment  of  our  law.  railed  prinefort 
et  dure,  which  was  formerly  inflicted   on   those  persons  who.  being  in- 
dicted, refused   to  plead,     'in   consequence  of  their  silenr-.  ihey  wer« 
pressed  to  death  by  a  heavy  weight  laid  on  the  stomach. -.Malosk. 


732  E  X  P  L  A  N  A  T  0  R  Y    N  0  T  E  S . 

"  Or  in  (he  shape  of  two  countries  at  once.''  —Act  III.  Sc.  2. 

"  For  an  Enjrlishman's  suit  is  like  a  traitor's  bodie  that  hath  Oepn 
hanged,  drawne,  and  quartered,  and  is  set  np  in  several  places ;  his  cod« 
piece  is  in  Deiunarke,  the  collor  of  liis  dublet  and  the  belly  in  France, 
the  wing-  and  narrow  sleeve  in  Italy,  the  short  waste  hangs  o'er  a  Dutch 
botcher's  stall  in  Utrich,  his  huge  sloppes  speaks  Spanish;  Polonia  givea 
him  the  bootes ;  and  thus  we  rnocke  eiirie  nation  for  keeping  one  tashirn, 
yet  steale  patches  from  eurie  one  of  them,  to  peece  out  our  pride,  and  are 
now  laughing-stocks  to  them,  because  their  cut  so  scurvily  becomes  us. 
Seven  Deadlie  Sinnes  of  London,  1606. 

^^  Have  a  care  that  your  bills  be  not  stolen.'' — Act  III.  Sc.  3. 

A  bill  is  still  carried  by  the  watchmen  at  Lichfield.  It  was  the  old 
weapon  of  the  English  infantry,  which,  says  Temple,  gave  the  most 
ghastly  and  deplorable  wounds.^' — Johnson. 

"  Side-sleeves." — Act  III.  Sc.  4. 

"This  time  was  used  exceeding  pride  in  garments,  gowns  with  deepe 
and  broad  sleeves,  commonly  called  poke  sleeves;  the  servants  ware  them 
as  well  as  their  masters,  which  might  well  have  been  called  the  re- 
ceptacles of  the  devil,  for  what  they  stole  they  hid  in  their  sleeves, 
whereof  some  hung  downe  to  the  feete,  and  at  least  to  the  knees,  full  of 
cuts  and  jagges,  whereupon  were  made  these  verses  (by  Tho.  Hoc- 
cleve)  :"— 

"Now  hath  this  lande  little  neede  of  broomes, 
To  sweepe  away  the  filthe  out  of  the  streete; 
Sen  side-sleeves  of  penneless  gromes 
Wile  it  up  licke  be  it  dne  or  weete." 

Stow's  Chronicle. 

"  He  wears  a  key  in  his  ear,  and  a  lock  hanging  by  it." 

Act  V.  Sc.  1. 

In  Shakspeare's  age,  fashionable  persons  of  the  male  sex  wore  ear- 
rings; there  was  also  a  silly  custom  of  wearing  a  single  lock  of  hair  pre- 
posterously long,  which  was  called  a  love-lock.  Fynes  Moryson,  in  his 
account  of  Lord  Montjoy's  dress,  says,  "That  his  haire  was  thinne  on  the 
heade,  where  he  wore  it  short,  except  a  locke  under  his  left  ear,  which 
he  nourisiied  tiie  time  of  the  warre,  and  being  woven  up,  hid  it  in  his 
necke  under  his  ruffe."  When  he  was  not  on  service,  he  probably  wore 
it  in  a  different  fashion.  The  portrait  of  Sir  Edward  Sackville,  Earl  of 
Dorset,  painted  by  Vandyke,  exhibits  this  lock,  with  a  large  knotted  rib- 
band at  the  end  of  it :  it  hangs  under  the  ear  on  the  left  side,  and  reaches 
as  low  as  where  the  star  is  now  worn  by  knights  of  the  garter. 

Malomg. 


MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

"  Your  eyes  are  lode-stars."  —  Act  I.  Sc.  1. 

This  was  a  compliment  not  unfrequent  among  the  old  poets.  The 
lode-star  is  the  leading  or  guiding-star,  that  is,  the  pole-star.  Th9 
magnet  is  for  the  same  reason  called  the  lode-stone,  either  because  it  leads 
iron  or  because  it  guide-s  ttie  sailor. — Johnson. 


EXPLANATORY    NOTES.  73S 

"  Gawds."— Acx  1.  Sc.  1. 

In  the  north,  a  gawd  is  a  child's  plaything,  and  a  h^i.by-house  is  called 
a  ga way-house. 

"  Or  to  her  death;  according  to  our  law." Act  1.  Sc.  1. 

By  a  law  of  Solon's,  parents  had  an  absolute  power  of  life  and  death 
over  their  children. 

"Robin  Goodfellow." — Act  II.  Sc.  1. 

"Your  grandame's  maids  were  wont  to  set  a  bowl  of  milk  for  him,  for 
his  pains  in  grinding  malt  and  mustard,  and  sweeping  the  house  at  mid- 
night; this  white  bread  and  bread  and  milk  was  his  standing-fee." 

DiscovERiE  OF  Witchcraft,  1584. 
"  PucA-."— Act  II.  Sc.  1. 

In  the  Fairy  Mythology,  Puck,  or  Hobgoblin,  was  the  trusty  servant 
of  Oberon,  and  always  em])loyed  to  watch  or  detect  tlie  intrigues  of 
Queen  Mab.  Mab  has  an  amour  with  Pigwigi{en:  Oberon  being  jeal- 
ous, sends  Puck  to  catcii  them,  and  one  of  Mab's  nymphs  opposes  him  by 
a  spell.^  In  Drayton's  Nymphidia,  we  find  a  close  resemblance  to  much 
of  the  tairy  machinery  employed  by  Shakspeare  in  this  play. — Joilnso. 

"/«  maiden  meditation  farivy  free." — Act  II.  Sc.  2. 

Thus  in  Queen  Elizabeth's  Entertainment  in  Suffulke  and  Norfolke, 
written  by  Churchyard,  Chastity  deprives  Cupid  of  iiis  Imw,  and  presents 
it  to  her  majesty :  —  "and  bycaiise  that  the  queene  had  chosen  tlie  best 
life,  she  gave  the  queene  Cupid's  bow,  to  learne  to  slioote  at  whome  she 
pleased;  since  none  could  wound  her  highnesse  hart,  it  was  meetc  (said 
Chastitie)  that  she  should  do  with  Cupid's  bowe  and  arrowes  what  siie 
pleased ." — Steevens. 

"  God  shield  us!  a  lion  among  ladies  is  a  most  dreadful  thinij." 

Act  III.  Sc.  1. 
There  is  an  odd  coincidence  between  what  our  author  has  hero  written 
for  Bottom,  and  a  real  occurrence  at  the  Scottish  court,  in  1094. — Prince 
Henry,  the  eldest  son  of  James  I.,  was  christened  in  Augu.-^l  in  that  year. 
While  the  king  and  queen  were  at  dinner,  a  triumphal  chariot,  with 
several  allegorical  personages  on  it,  was  drawne  in  by  "a  bIack-mo<jre. 
This  chariot  should  have  been  drawne  in  by  a  hjnn,  but  because  hiti  pre- 
sence might  have  brought  some  feare  to  the  neare.-t,  or  tiial  the  sight  of 
the  lighted  torcl.es  might  have  commoved  his  lamt?noas  it  was  thought 
meete"that  the  Moore  should  supply  tliat  room."— .A  true  Account  of  the 
most  triumphal  and  royal  Accomplishment  of  tlio  Baptism  of  the  most  ex- 
cellent right  high,  and  mighty  Prince,  Henry  Frederick,  &.C.,  as  it  WM 
solemnized,  the  30th  of  Augu.st,  1594.     8vo.  1()(K3.— .Malone. 

"  Of  hind'rimr  knnt-srrass  madr"—\cA  III.  Sc.  2. 
It  appears  that  knot-grass  was  anciently  sup|X)sed  l<i  prevent  the 
growth  of  any  animal  or  child.  Ri-aumoiit  and  FIftch.T  mrnti.in  thia 
property  of  it  in  the  Knight  of  the  Burning  Peslle :  —  "  Sh<iuld  th«'y  put 
him  into  a  straight  pair  of  gaskins, 't  were  worse  than  kniU-graia;  ho 
would  never  grow  after  it." — Steeve.ns. 

"  Thou  painted  may-pnlr."—.\c\  III.  Sc.  2. 

So  in  Stubbe's  Anatomie  of  Abu.^es,  ir>'«3 :— "  Hut  their  chiefeHl  icwHI 
thei  bryng  from  thence  is  their  Maie-pnte,  wiiiche  ihei  bryiig  home  with 


736  EXPLANATORY    NOTES. 


"  A  woman  that  is  like  a  German  clock.'''' — Act  III.  Sc.  1, 

In  a  book  callwi  The  Artificial  Clockmaker,  1714,  we  find  the  follow 
rag  remarks:  "Clock-making  was  supposed  to  have  had  its  beginning  in 
Germany  withm  less  than  these  two  hundred  years.  It  is  very  probable 
that  onr  balance  cloclcs  or  watches,  and  some  other  automata,  might  have 
had  their  begmning  there."  Little  worth  remark  is  to  be  found  till  to- 
wards the  16th  century,  and  tiien  clock-work  was  revived  or  wholly  in- 
vented anew  in  Germany,  as  is  generally  thought,  because  the  ancient 
pieces  are  of  German  work.  The  mechanism  of  tliese  clocks  was  ex- 
tremely complicated,  and  consequently  they  frequently  wanted  repairing. 

Steevens. 

"        ■  where  is  the  bush 
That  we  must  stand  and  play  the  murderer  in." 

Act  IV.  So.  I 

How  familiar  the  amusement  of  deer-shooting  once  was  to  ladies  of 
quality,  may  be  known  from  a  letter  addressed  by  Lord  Wharton  to  the 
earl  of  Shrewsbury,  dated  from  Alnewick,  Aug.  14,  1555.  "I  besiche 
yor  lordeshipp  to  tayke  some  sporte  of  my  litell  grounde  there,  and  to 
command  the  same  even  as  yor  lordshippes  owne.  My  ladye  may  shote 
with  her  cross  bowe,"  &c. — Steevens. 

"  Here,  good  my  glass.'''' — Act  IV.  Sc.  1. 

To  understand  how  the  princess  lias  her  glass  so  ready  at  hand  in  a 
common  conversation,  it  must  be  remembered,  that  in  those  days  it  was 
the  fasiiion  among  the  French  ladies  to  wear  a  looking  glass,  as  Bayle 
coarsely  represents  it,  on  their  bellies ;  that  is,  to  have  a  small  mirror  set 
in  gold  hanging  at  their  girdle,  by  which  they  occasionally  viewed  their 
faces,  or  adjusted  their  hair. — Johnson. 

"  But,  sir,  I  assure  ye,  it  was  a  buck  of  the  first  head, 
'i  was  a  pricket.''"' — Act  IV.  Sc.  2. 

In  the  Return  from  Parnassus,  1606,  we  find  the  following  account  of 
the  different  appellations  of  deer,  at  their  different  ages: — "I  caused  the 
keeper  to  sever  the  rascal  deer  from  the  bucks  of  the  first  head.  Now, 
sir,  a  buck  is,  the  first  year,  a  fawn ;  the  .second  year,  a  pricket;  the 
third  year,  a  sorrell ;  the  fourth  year,  a  soare  ;  the  fifth,  a  buck  of  the 
first  head  ;  the  sixth  year,  a  compleate  buck.  Likewise  your  hart  is,  the 
first  year,  a  calf;  the  second  year,  a  brochet ;  the  third  year,  a  spade; 
the  fourth  year,  a  stag ,-  the  .sixth  year,  a  hart.  A  roebuck  is,  the  first 
year,  a  kid;  the  second  year,  a  ffird ;  the  third  year,  a  hemuse ;  and 
these  are  your  special  beasts  for  chase." — Steevens. 

"  He  comes  in  like  a  perjure.'''' — Act  IV.  Sc.  3. 

Perjury  was  punished  by  affixing  a  paper  to  the  breast,  expressing  the 
crime.  Holinshed  says  of  VVolsey,  "  He  so  punished  a  perjurie  with  open 
punishment,  and  open  papers  wearing,  that  in  his  time  it  was  less  used." 
Again,  in  Leicester's  Commonwealth: — "The  gentlemen  were  all  taken 
and  cast  into  prison,  and  afterwards  were  set  down  to  Ludlow,  there  to 
wear  papers  of  perjury.'''' — Steevens. 

"  L'lke  Muscovites,  or  Russians,  as  I  guess. "-^r^ Act  V.  Sc.  2. 

A  mask  of  Muscovites  was  no  uncommon  recreation  at  court,  long 
before  Siiakspeare's  time.  In  the  first  year  of  King  Henry  VIII.  at  a 
banquet  made  for  the  foreign  ambassadors  in  the  parliament  chamber  at 


EXPLANATORY    NOTES.  737 

Westminster: — "came  the  lorde  Henry,  earle  of  Wiltshire,  ana  the  lorde 
Fitzwater,  m  twoo  long  gounes  of  yellowe  satin  traversed  with  white 
satin,  and  in  every  ben  of  white  was  a  bend  of  crimson  satin,  after  the 
fashion  of  Russia  or  Ruslande,  with  furred  liattes  of  grey  on  their  hcdes, 
either  of  them  havyng  an  hatchet  in  their  handes,  and  bootes  with  pykea 
turned  up."     Hall's  Henry  VIII. — Ritson. 

"Better  wits  have  worn  plain  statute-caps." — Act  V.  Sc.  2. 

Woollen-caps  were  enjoined  by  act  of  parliament,  in  the  year  1571, 
the  15th  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  "Besides  the  bills  passed  into  acts  this 
parliament,  there  was  one  which  I  judsre  not  amiss  to  be  taken  notice  of: 
it  concerned  the  queen's  care  for  employment  for  her  poor  sorts  of  sub- 

{'ects.  It  was  for  continuance  of  making  and  wearing  woollen-caps,  in 
lehalfe  of  the  trade  of  cappers;  providing  that  all  above  the  age  of  six 
yeares  (exc-ept  the  nobility  and  some  others)  should,  on  sabbath-days  and 
holy-days,  wear  caps  of  wool,  knit,  thicked,  and  dressed  in  England,  upon 
penalty  of  ten  groats." — Strype's  Annals  of  Elizabeth. 

"  Lord  have  mercy  on  us .'" — Act  V.  Sc.  2. 

This  was  the  inscription  put  on  the  doors  of  houses  infected  with  the 
plague.  So  in  Sir  Thomas  Overbury's  Characters,  1632 : — "  Lord  have 
mercy  on  us  may  well  stand  over  their  doors,  for  debt  is  a  most  danger- 
ous city  pestilence." — Johnson. 

"  And  if  these  four  worthies  in  their  first  show  thrive. 
These  four  will  chanse  habits,  and  present  the  other  five." 

•^  ActV.  Sc.  2. 

Shakspeare  here  alludes  to  the  shifts  to  which  the  actors  were  reduced 
in  the  old  theatres,  one'pefion  ofteli'^gfforming  two  or  three  parts. 

Malonb 

"  Some  Dick."— Act  V.  Sc.  2. 

Out-roaring  Dick  was  a  celebrated  singer,  who  with  William  Wim- 
bars,  is  said  by  Henry  Chettle,  in  his  Kind  Harts  Dreame,  to  have  got 
twenty  shillings  a  day  by  singing,  at  Braintree  fair,  in  Essex.— M alone. 

"  Pageant  of  the  nine  worthies." — Act  V.  Sc.  2. 

Among  the  Harleian  MSS.  we  find  the  following:  — "The  order  of  a 
Showe  intended  to  be  made,  Aug.  1,  1621.  First,  Two  wootlmcn,  &€., 
St  Geortre  fio-htin^  with  the  Dragon.  The  nine  Worthies  in  complete 
armor  wfth  crounel  of  gould  on  their  heads,  every  one  having  his  enquires 
to  beare  before  him  his  shield  and  penon  of  armes.  dressed  accnrding  aa 
these  lords  were  accustomed  to  be,  3  Assaralits,  3  Infidels,  .J  Christiana. 
After  them,  a  Fame,  to  declare  the  rare  virtues  and  noble  decdes  ot  the 
9  worthye  women." — Steevens. 

"  It  was  enjoined  in  Rome  for  want  of  linen."— Act  V.  Sc.  2. 

A  Spaniard  fell  in  a  duel.  As  he  lay  expiring,  a  friend  approached, 
and  offered  his  services.  The  dying  man  made  but  one  request,  winch 
was  not  to  suffer  his  body  to  be  stripl,  but  to  bury  Inm  in  the  habit  he 
had  on  The  friend  promised  compliance,  tl,.,-  Spaniard  oxpirnl  in  prace  . 
Sutcuriosi^ty  prevailed  over  good  .kith;  the  body  wa.  str.pt,  and  iound  to 
be  without  a  sAirr— Warburton. 


Vol.  L— 47 


3m 


738  EXPLANATORY    NOTES. 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


"  He  lends  out  money  gratis,  and  brings  down. 
The  rate  of  usance  here  with  us  in  Venice." 

Act  I.  Sc.  3. 

"  It  is  almost  incredyble  what  gaine  the  Venetians  receive  by  the  usury 
of  the  Jevves,  both  privately  and  in  common.  For  in  everie  citie  the 
Jewes  kepe  open  shops  of  nsurie,  takintj  gfaiges  of  ordinarie  for  xv  in  the 
hundred  by  tlie  yere;  and  if  at  the  yere's  end  the  gaige  be  not  redeemed, 
it  is  forfeite,  or  at  the  least  dooen  away  to  a  great  disadvantage,  by  rea- 
son whereof  the  Jewes  are  out  of  measure  wealthie  m  those  parts." 

Thomas's  History  of  Italy,  1561. 

"  But  let  us  make  incision  for  your  love, 
To  prove  whose  blood  is  reddest,  his  or  mine." 

Act  II.  Sc.  1. 

Red  blood  has  been  considered  a  proof  of  courage.  Bartholomew 
Glanville  says,  "  Reed  clothes  ben  layd  upon  deed  men,  in  remembrance 
of  their  hardyness  and  boldness,  whyle  they  were  in  theyr  bloudde."  On 
which,  his  commentator,  Batman,  remarks:  —  "It  appeareth  in  the  time 
of  the  Saxons,  that  the  manner  over  their  dead  was  a  red  cloath,  as  we 
now  use  blacke.  The  red  of  valiaimcie,  and  that  was  over  kings,  lords, 
knights,  and  valyant  souldiours." — Douce. 

«'  Nay  more ;  while  grace  is  saying,  hood  mine  eyes, 
Thus  with  my  hat,  and  sigh,  and  say,  Amen." 

Act  II.  Sc.  2. 

It  should  be  remembered,  that  in  Shakspeare's  time,  they  wore  their 
hats  on  durmg  the  time  of  dinner. — Malone. 

"  My  nose  fell  a  bleeding  on  Black-Monday  last." — Act  II.  Sc.  5. 

^^  Black  Monday  is  Easter  Monday,  and  was  so  called  on  this  occasion. 
In  the  34th  of  Edward  III.,  (1360,)  the  14th  of  April,  and  the  morrow 
after  Easier  day.  King  Edvvard,  with  his  host,  lay  before  the  city  of  Paris; 
which  day  was  full  dark  of  mist  and  hail,  and  so  bitter  cold,  that  many 
men  died  on  their  horses'  backs  with  the  cold.  Wherefore,  unto  this  day, 
it  hath  been  called  the  Blacke  Monday." — Stowe. 

" /<  was  my  turquoise." — Act  III.  Sc.  1. 

A  turquoise  is  a  precious  stone  found  in  the  veins  of  the  mountains  on 
the  confines  of  Persia  to  the  east,  subject  to  the  Tartars.  It  was  said  of 
this  stone,  that  it  faded  or  brightened  in  its  colour,  as  the  health  of  the 
wearer  increased  or  grew  less.  So  Edward  Fenton,  in  his  Secret  Wond- 
ers of  Nature,  1569,  says,  "  The  Turkeys  doth  move  when  there  is  any 
perill  prepared  to  him  that  weareth  it." — Steevens. 

"  Snaky  golden  locks." — Act  III.  Sc.  2. 

Periwigs  were  universally  worn  in  Shakspeare's  age.  This  will  be 
l)esi  snown  by  an  extract  from  an  old  pamphlet,  entitled  The  Honestie  of 
this  Age,  by  Barnabe  Riche,  1615.  —  "My  lady  holdeth  on  her  way,  per- 
haps to  the  tire-maker's  shop,  where  she  shaketh  her  crownes  to  bestow 
upon  some  new  fashioned  attire,  upon  such  artificial  deformed  periwigs. 


EXPLANATORY    NOTES.  739 

that  they  were  fitter  to  furnish  a  theatre,  or  for  her  that  in  a  sta<re  plav 
^ould  represent  some  ha?  of  hell,  llian  to  be  used  by  a  Christian  woman 
Ihese  attire-makers,  vvithm  these  fhriie  years,  were  not  k.i..w.,e  hv  iha' 
name;  and  but  now  very  lately  they  kept  tlieir  lowsie  conmiodity  of  pen 
wigs,  and  taeir  monstrous  attires,  closed  in  boxes;  and  those  woinen  that 
used  to  weare  them  would  not  buy  them  but  in  secret.  But  now  Uiey 
are  not  asiiamed  to  set  them  forth  upon  their  stalls,  such  monstrous  mop. 
powles  ot  haire,  so  proportioned  and  deformed,  that  but  wuhiu  these 
twenty  or  thirty  yeares  would  have  drawne  the  passers-by  to  stand  and 
gaze,  and  to  wonder  at  them." — Malone. 

"  Like  cutler's  poetry." — Act  V.  So.  1. 

Knives  were  formerly  inscribed,  by  means  of  aqua  fort  is,  with  short 
sentences  in  rhyme.  In  Decker's  Sutiromasti.v,  we  have  the  fullowing 
allusion  to  this  custom:  — "You  shall  swear  by  Phoebu.s  who  is  your 
poet's  good  lord  and  master,  that  hereafter  you  will  not  hire  Horace  to 
give  you  poesies  for  rings,  or  handkerchers,  or  knives,  which  you  under- 
stand not." — Reed. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

«  In  (he  forest  Art/en."— Act  I.  Sc.  1. 

Ardenne  is  a  fore.st  of  considerable  extent  in  French  Flanders,  lying 
near  the  Meuse,  and  between  Charlemont  and  Rocroy. — Malone. 

"  7s  but  a  quintain,  a  mere  lifeless  block." — Act  I.  Sc.  2. 

The  quintain  was  a  stake  driven  into  a  field,  upon  which  wore  hung  a 
shield  and  other  trophies  of  war,  at  which  they  shot,  darted,  or  nnle,  with 
a  lance.  When  the  trophies  and  shield  were  all  thrown  down,  the  quin- 
tain remained. — Guthrie. 

"  Which,  like  the  toad,  uffly  and  venomous. 
Wears  yet  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head." — Act  11.  Sc.  1. 

"There  is  found  in  the  heades  of  old  and  great  toades,  a  stone,  which 
they  call  borax  or  stelon :  it  is  most  commonly  found  in  the  head  of  a  kre 
toade,  of  power  to  repulse  poysons,  and  that  it  is  a  most  soveraigne 
medicine  for  the  stone." — Wondeks  of  .Nature,  15Gi). 

"  You  shall  know  whether  the  (ode  stone  be  the  right  and  perfect  stone 
•tr  not.  Hold  the  stone  before  a  toad,  so  that  he  may  sec  it ;  and  if  it  be 
a  ryght  and  true  stone,  the  tode  will  Icape  towarde  it.  ami  in:ike  u 
though  he  would  snatch  it.  He  envieth  so  much  that  man  should  Imvo 
that  stone."— Lupton's  Notable  Thimis. 

"  To  the  which  place  a  poor  srqucster'd  s(ag 

Did  come  (o  languish 

and  (he  biij  round  tears, 

Cours'd  one  anodter  down  hm  innocent  note 
In  piteous  chase." — Act  H.  Sc.  1. 

The  stag  is  said  to  pos.«o.>=8  a  very  large  secretion  of  to.nrH.  "  NV'hcn 
the  hart  is  arered,  he  fleetiie  to  n  river  or  poniie,  and  rorelii,  cry<'lh  and 
weepelh  when  he  is  tak -n."— "  When  th.'  hart  is  .sick,  an.!  halli  eaten 
many  serpents  for  his  recoverie,  he  is  brought  into  bo  great  a  heal  U«t 


740  EXPLANATORY    NOTES. 

he  basteth  to  the  water,  and  tliere  covereth  his  body  unto  the  very  eares 
and  eyes,  at  wliicii  time  distUlfth  many  tf-ares,  t'rom  which  the  bezoai 
stone  ij  engendered." — Bateman  and  Docce. 

"  /  teas  nevT  so  be-rhymed  since  Pythascoras'  time,  that  I  teas  ai  Irish 
rat.''— Act  liirSc.  2. 

Rosalind  is  a  very  learned  lady.  She  alludes  to  the  Pythagorean  doc- 
trine, wiiiCii  teaches  that  souls  transmigrate  from  one  animal  to  another, 
and  relates  that  in  his  time  she  was  an  Irish  rat,  and,  by  some  metrical 
charm,  was  rhymed  to  death.  Toe  power  of  killing  rats  with  rhymes, 
Donne  mentions  in  his  Satires,  and  Temple  in  his  Treatises.  Dr.  Grey 
produces  a  like  passage  from  Randolph : — 


my  poets 


Shall  with  a  satire,  steeped  in  gall  and  vinegar. 

Rhyme  them  to  death,  as  they  do  rats  in  Ireland."    JoHiiSOii 

"  Garagantua's  mouth." — Act  III.  Sc.  2. 
Garagantua  is  the  giant  of  Rabelais. — JoHSSOs. 

"  But  I  answer  you  right  painted  cloth.'' — Act  III.  Sc.  2. 

This  alludes  to  the  fashion  in  old  tapestry  hangings,  of  mottos  and 
moral  sentences  from  the  mouths  of  the  figures  worked  or  painted  in  them. 

Theobald. 

"  Then  your  hose  should  be  ungartefd."'  —  Act  III.  Sc.  2. 

Inattention  to  personal  appearances  was  one  of  the  established  6ym{> 
toms  of  being  in  love.  So  in  the  Fair  Maid  of  the  Exchange,  by  Hey- 
wood,  1637  :  "  Shall  I,  that  have  jested  at  love's  sighs,  now  raise  whirl- 
winds 3  Shall  I,  that  have  flouted  ah  me's  once  a  quarter,  now  practice 
ah  me's  every  minute  ?  Shall  I  de/y  hat-bands,  and  tread  garters  and 
shoe-strings  under  my  feet  I  Shall  I  fall  to  falling  bands,  and  be  a  mf- 
fian  no  longer?  I  must;  I  am  now  Cupid's  liegeman,  and  have  read  all 
these  informations  in  the  book  of  his  statutes." — Maloxe. 

"  Something  browner  than  Judas's." — Act  HI.  Sc.  4. 

Judas  was  constantly  represented  in  old  paintings  or  tapestry,  with 
red  hair  and  beard.  So  in  the  Insatiate  Countess,  1613:  —  "I  ever 
thought  by  his  red  beard  he  would  prove  a  Judas." — Steevexs. 

" The  common  executioner 


Falls  not  the  axe  upon  the  humbled  neck." — Act  III.  Sc.  5. 

There  is  reason  to  believe,  that  during  Elizabeth's  reign  the  punisbi 
ment  of  decapitation  was  occasionally  inflicted  by  an  instrument  resem- 
tAing  the  French  guillotine.  The  Earl  of  Morton,  when  condemned  aa 
an  accomplice  in  the  murder  of  Darnley,  seems  to  have  suffered  in  this 
way.  The  criminal's  head  and  neck  being  laid  on  a  block,  the  axe, 
which  was  suspended  over  him,  was  released  from  the  cord  which  con- 
fined it,  by  the  executi(>ner,  and  fell  with  sufficient  force  to  separate  tl»e 
head  from  the  body. 

**  I  will  weep  for  nothing,  like  Diana  in  the  fountain.''''  —  Act  IV.  Sc.  I. 

An  allusion  to  the  Cross  in  Cheaf)?ide;  the  religious  images,  wth 
which  it  was  ornamented,  being  defiiced  (as  we  'ea-^n  from  Stow)  in 


EXPLANATORY    NOTES.  741 

1596  :  —  "There  was  then  set  up  a  curious  wrought  taLemacle  of  .rray 
marble,  and  in  the  same  an  alabaster  i  ma  ore  of  Diana,  and  water  coo- 
veyed  trom  the  Thames,  pnllinnr  from  her  naked  breast"— Stkkvem. 

"  Good  wine  needs  no  bush." — Act  V.  Sc.  4. 

It  appears  formerly  to  have  been  the  custom  to  ban?  a  lufl  of  ivy  at 
the  door  of  a  vintner:  ivy  wa?  rather  used  than  any  other  pknt,'because 
It  has  relation  to  Bacchus.     The  subjoined  passages  prove  tiie  custom : 
"'Tis  like  the  ivy-bush  unto  a  tavern."— Rival  Friends,  1632. 
"  Green  ivy-bushes  at  the  vintners'  doores." 

Summer's  Last  Will  and  Testament.  lt>(K). 

St£EVK<«* 


ALL'S  TTELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL. 

"  TiVs  rush,  for  Tom' s  forefinger." — Act  II.  Sc.  '2. 

In  France  there  was  formerly  a  custom  of  placing  a  rush  ring  on  the 
lady's  finger,  when  a  marriage  was  finally  agreed  upon.  Bui  m  Eng- 
land, rush  rings  were  employed  to  abuse  the  simplicity  of  young  girls, 
by  deluding  them  into  a  state  of  concubinage  with  a  pretended  marriage. 
Richard  Poore,  bishop  of  Salisbury,  in  his  Constitutions,  I'^IT,  furbnis  tlie 
putting  of  rusA  rings,  or  any  of  the  like  matters,  on  women's  fin;:or>,  in 
order  to  the  debauching  them  more  readily,  and  lie  insinuates,  as  a  ronton 
for  the  pDohibition,  that  there  were  some  people  weak  enough  to  believe, 
that  what  wais  thus  done  in  jest,  was  a  real  marriage. 

"Like  him  that  leaped  into  the  custard." — Act  II.  Sc.  5. 

It  was  a  foolery  practised  at  city  entertainments,  whilst  the  jester  or 
xany  was  in  vocrue,  for  him  to  jump  mto  a  large  deep  custard,  preporwd 
for  the  purpose. — Theob.*.ld. 

"  Palmers." — .\ct  III.  Sc.  5. 

Pilgrims  that  visited  holy  places,  so  called  from  a  Ptaff.  or  bough  o* 
palm^thev  were  wont  to  carry,  especially  such  as  had  vi.<it.>d  Jeru^alL•m. 
"A  pi7:rrim  and  a  pw/mfT  differed  thus:  A  pilgrim  had  some  dwelling, 
the  pahner  none;  the  pUirrim  In  veiled  to  some  certain  place,  th.-  j-nlmrr 
to  all,  not  one  in  particular:  the  pUirrim  might  bear  his  o«n  charjrea, 
the  ofl/mfT  must  profess  wilful  poverty;  the  ptlnrim  might  relinquuih 
his  vocation,  the  palmer  must  be  con.-tjint  till  he  won  the  palm,  that  m, 
victory  over  his  ghostly  enemies,  and  life  by  death." 

Bu)ivr  8  (jLoaooRAPHT. 

»  J(i/i/j  Drum's  entertainment."--Acl  III.  Sc.  6. 
Holi.ished.  in  his  History  of  Ireland,  speaking  of  Patrick  Sarw-ficld^ 
mayor  of  Dublin,  and  of  hi's  e.xtravagant  h.r.p,l;.l,ty,  snys.  th«l  "no  guwt 
had  ever  a  cold  or  forbidding  looko  from  any  part  of  his  fkinily :  *o  that 
his  porter,  or  any  other  officer,  durst  not,  for  Ix.ih  h,s  y,rr».  v.rr  Ihr  «m- 
plest  man  that  resorted  to  h.s  house,  T-m  Drum  h,s  ^""^  <'.V"r'nr«^ 
which  ts  to  hale  a  man  in  by  the  htode,  and  thrust  him  ouK  by  both  tk0 
ghoiUders." — ThkobajJ). 


742  EXPLANATORY    NOTES. 

»  The  sheriff's  fnoV—  Act  IV.  Sc.  3. 

We  are  not  to  suppose  tliat  this  was  a.  fool,  kept  by  the  sheriff  for  Lis 
diversion.  Tlie  cust.ody  of  all  i(]inls  possessed  of  hind,  belonged  to  the 
kinjr,  who  was  entitled  to  their  income,  but  was  oblio;ed  to  provide  them 
neces-siiries.  When  the  property  was  large,  this  preroaative  was  gene- 
rally given  to  some  favourite,  or  other  person,  who  made  suit  for  and  had 
interest  enough  to  obtain  it,  which  was  called  btg<rinsr  a  fool.  But 
where  the  land  was  of  small  value,  the  natural  was  supported  out  of  the 
profits,  by  the  sheriff,  who  accounted  for  them  to  tlie  crown.  As  for  tliose 
unhappy  creatures,  who  had  neitlier  possessions  nor  relations,  they  seem 
to  have  been  considered  as  a  species  of  property,  being  sold  or  given, 
with  as  little  ceremony,  treated  as  capriciously,  and  very  ofttm,  it  is  to 
be  feared,  left  to  perish  as  miserably,  as  dogs  or  cats. — Ritson. 

"  Villainous  saffron." — Act  IV.  Sc.  5. 

This  alludes  to  a  fantastic  fashion,  of  using  yellow  starch  for  bands  and 
ruffs.  Yellow  starch  was  invented  by  one  Turner,  a  tire-woman,  a  court 
bawd,  and  in  all  respects  of  so  infamous  a  ciiaracter,  that  her  invention 
deserved  the  name  of*'  villainous  saffron.''''  This  woman  was  afterwards 
among  the  miscreants  concerned  in  ihe  murder  of  Sir  Tliomas  Overbury 
for  which  she  was  hanged  at  Tyburn,  and  would  die  in  a  yellow  riff  of 
her  own  invention;  which  made  yellow  starch  so  odious,  that  it  imme- 
diately went  out  of  fashion."  Starch  was  used  of  various  colours,  and  is 
declaimed  against  most  bitterly  by  Stubbes  in  his  Anatomie  of  Abuses. 

"  Plutns  himself. 
That  knows  the  tincl  and  multiplying  medicine." — Act  V.  Sc.  3. 

In  the  reign  of  Henry  IV.  a  law  was  made  to  forbid  thenceforth  to 
multiply  gold,  or  use  any  craft  of  wultiplication,  of  which  law,  Boyle, 
when  he  was  warm  with  the  hope  of  transmutation,  procured  a  repeal. 

Johnson. 

»  Exorcist."— Act  V.  Sc.  3. 

By  an  exorcist,  we  now  mean  one  who  can  lay  spirits,  but  in  Shak- 
speare's  age,  exorcist  implied  a  person  who  could  raise  spirits.  The  dif- 
ference between  a  conjuror,  a  witch,  and  an  inchanler,  is  as  follows: — 
"  The  conjuror  seemeth  by  praiers  and  invocations  of  God's  powerful 
names,  to  compell  the  devill  to  say  or  doe  what  he  commandeth  him. 
The  witch  dealeth  rather  by  a  friendlie  and  voluntary  conference  or 
agreement  between  him  or  her  and  the  devill  or  familiar,  to  have  his  or 
her  turne  served,  in  lieu  or  stead  of  blood  or  other  gift  unto  him ;  espe- 
cially of  his  or  her  soule.  And  both  these  differ  from  inchanters  or  sor- 
cerers, because  the  former  two  have  pers<jnall  conference  with  the  devill^ 
and  the  other  meddles  but  with  medicines  and  ceremonial  formes  of 
words  called  charmes,  without  apparition." — Minsheu's  Dict.  1617. 


END    OF    VOL.    I. 


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